


100 Ways To Say I Love You

by ZombieBabs



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alcohol, Alex Whump, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Common Cold, Concussions, Depression, Dessert & Sweets, F/M, First Aid, First Kiss, Fluff, Hallucinations, Hangover, Home Invasion, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Insomnia, Kidnapping, Movie Night, Mugging, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One Shot Collection, Psychic Abilities, Repressed Memories, Sleepy Cuddles, Strand Whump, Trapped In Elevator, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 100
Words: 87,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs/pseuds/ZombieBabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots featuring Alex Reagan and Richard Strand. Each chapter focuses on a different way to say 'I love you.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. “Pull over.  Let me drive for awhile.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you) post on tumblr.

Alex likes to drive. She likes the peace of watching the landscape go by, likes the soothing feeling of the road rumbling underneath her. She especially likes to drive with the comfort of having another person with her in the car, even if they have drifted into silence hours before.

She glances over at Dr. Strand, sitting in the passenger seat with a heavy book in his lap. She teased him about it earlier. She knows he owns a tablet, something far smaller and much more convenient. But the sight of him with a physical book, dusty and clearly many years old, reminds her somewhere underneath all the madness of the past few weeks, is her familiar doctor. She smiles and turns her attention back to the road.

The highway becomes more and more deserted the further they drive from the city. It’s nice to be away from the traffic, to be able to put her foot on the gas and just go. The highway stretches out before her and they have several hundred more miles to go before they reach their destination.

Her eyes begin to feel heavy.

It’s nothing new. She's been battling her insomnia for a while now. She shifts in her seat, tries to wake her body up with the slight movement. She blinks hard and goes back to driving.

When her eyelids begin to feel heavier, she blinks a few times and shakes her head. Her exhaustion refuses to be dislodged.

Strand must notice, because he looks up from his book. Alex tries to sit up straighter, to look more alert underneath his gaze, but she has a strong suspicion he can see right through her. Those sharp blue eyes take in everything.

“Pull over,” he says, voice a low grumble after being quiet for so long.

“I’m fine.”

“Alex.” He waits for her to glance over at him before continuing. “Pull over. Let me drive for a while.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re practically falling asleep at the wheel. Pull over.”

Alex frowns, ready to argue, but she yawns and she knows she’s lost the battle. She’s been up close to 48 hours now. She eases her foot off the gas and pulls onto the shoulder.

“Thanks,” she says as she unbuckles her seat belt.

His lips turn up in a small smile and there is a softness around his eyes as he undoes his seatbelt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated April 25, 2017


	2. "It reminded me of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [rubylevanah](http://rubylevanah.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for helping me out with this chapter!

Alex sighs again and tips her head back to look at the ceiling. Her thoughts are still groggy from a long, sleepless night. Her body feels heavy, making every attempt at movement an exhausting endeavor. Even the process of logging into her computer saps what little energy she has left. 

She needs coffee.

It will be her third cup this morning.

Instead of pushing herself out of her chair and making her way to the break room, Alex lets her head thud onto the desk.

Her eyes slip shut.

When Alex jerks awake, just as she always does these days, it takes her a moment to realize where she is. Her face heats up, mortified at having fallen asleep at work. Her shoulders sag a little in relief, however, when she reassures herself the door is closed--no one could have seen her passed out with her head pillowed on her desk. 

She sits back in her chair, still feeling exhausted as hell, but more awake than she had before her impromptu nap.

Two things are on her desk which were not there when she first came in.

Alex rubs at her eyes, afraid she might be seeing things, but no, on her desk is a paper to-go cup and a thick book. A yellow sticky note is stuck to the book. It reads:

_It reminded me of you. -RS_

The coffee, when she takes a hesitant sip, is still warm. In it is also probably enough sugar in it to kill a man. Alex puts the cup down with a grimace, deciding that Strand, the avid tea drinker and closet sweet-tooth, is no longer allowed to prepare coffee without her supervision.

Alex examines the book next, sliding it toward her for better access. It’s clearly very old. The lettering on the hardback cover has completely worn away. The pages, when she opens to the middle of the book, are yellowed and smell of dust. The text is still readable, in spite of its age. She skims a bit of it and is surprised to find herself reading a manual for hunting witches. 

Closing the book and opening it again to the inside cover, Alex finds a list of names. Dragging her finger over each name, reading them out loud to herself, she stops when she comes to the last one. 

_Howard Strand_

Alex shuts the book and, not thinking, takes another drink of coffee. And nearly spits it out.

Pulling out her phone, she sends a quick text.

 **AR:** Thanks for the book. Your coffee could wake the dead.

She isn’t expecting an answer, but her phone buzzes against the desk a few minutes later.

 **RS:** You’re welcome. Thought you might need it.

Smiling, she taps out a reply.

 **AR:** The witch-hunting book or the coffee?

Again, her phone buzzes.

 **RS:** “Black as night, sweet as sin.”

Alex laughs, then, bracing herself, she finishes the rest of the coffee. She grimaces at the sludge of undissolved sugar still left in the cup. 

Sweet as sin, her ass.

 **AR:** Next time, just order a caramel latte.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotation sent by Doctor Strand comes from Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys.
> 
> *Updated April 25 2017*


	3. “No, no, it’s my treat.”

They’re sitting down for coffee at her favorite local shop. Alex figures, if she can’t persuade him to eat anything beyond a protein bar, she can at least fill him with caffeine. It’s a small band-aid for a very large problem, but it gives her a small sense of control. She has spent weeks worrying about this wreck of a man, watching him spiral out of control, watching him pull further and further away from her. She likes knowing that she has done _something_ to help. 

Alex sets his prefered tea down in front of him while a small crowd bustles around their table. The way Strand takes a sip, eyes closing in pleasure, take some of the weight of anxiety from Alex’s shoulders.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Strand fingers drumming against the paper cup in front of him while Alex’s own pick at the muffin she had purchased for herself.

“Thank you,” he says, nodding to his tea. “How much--?”

“No, no,” Alex cuts him off. “It’s my treat.”

His eyes flick down, scanning the table for her ever-present recorder. When he doesn’t see it, Alex can’t help but notice his shoulders relax.

It makes something twist in her gut to see him so paranoid, so untrusting, even of her. 

Putting on a smile that she hopes reaches her eyes, Alex sweeps up the remains of her muffin into a napkin. “C’mon, let’s get back to the studio.”

Strand’s eyes focus on her like she’s another piece of his puzzle, like he can’t quite figure out her motives, but still, he unfolds his tall frame from his seat and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little bit shorter, sorry!!


	4. “Come here.  Let me fix it.”

“We are being followed.” Strand is tense beside her, like a cat with his hackles raised. 

“It’s probably just security. No one else should be in this wing of the museum after hours, right? That’s what the director said.”

Strand shakes his head. Voice pitched low, he says, “It’s not security.”

Without warning, Strand turns and runs in the opposite direction. A second later, a figure in black leaps out from the shadow of a display and takes off running. 

It takes a moment for Alex to process what is happening, before she runs after Strand. It’s all she can do to keep up with his long-legged strides, his shoes pounding against the tiled floor as he puts less distance between himself and their stalker. Strand reaches out and snags the hood of the man’s jacket, half-choking him and jerking the man to a halt. 

The stalker doesn’t stay caught, however. He twists around, grabs Strand’s hand, and does something that makes Strand yelp in pain and release the fabric in his grasp. Still in possession of Strand’s hand, he pulls Strand down--right into the punch he throws with his free arm.

There’s an alarming crunching noise and Strand goes down. 

When the stranger pushes past her, running back the way they came, back towards the exit, Alex lets him go.

“Don’t let him get away,” says Strand, holding a hand over his face. 

Alex ignores him.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, kneeling down beside him. She tries to pry his hand away so she can assess the damage, but Strand shrugs her off. “Come here. Let me fix it.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Let me see.”

When he pulls his hand away, his glasses come away in two pieces. The skin just above one of his eyes is split open and bleeding. 

Alex rummages around in her messenger bag, still slung across her body, and pulls out a package of travel tissues. He winces when she starts to dab at the wound, trying to clean up some of the blood.

“Here, hold this. I think I have a band-aid in my bag.”

“What don’t you have in there?”

Alex smiles. “Something to fix your glasses with, unfortunately. How much can you see without them?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” 

Alex unzips one of the inner pockets of her bag. Just as she thought, there are two bandages, still in their wrinkled paper sleeves. She unwraps one and gently pushes his fingers out of the way so that she can place it over the wound. “There, all better.”

“The man who was following us still got away.”

Alex rolls her eyes, knowing he can’t see her do it. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You aren’t going to be able to do much investigating if you can’t even see.”

He can’t argue with her there. 


	5. "I'll Walk You Home"

“I’ll walk you home.”

The words come out of the blue. Strand takes a long pull of his beer, something foreign that she’s never heard of before, and doesn’t meet her eyes when he places the empty bottle back on the table.

Alex grins, feeling herself sway. Following his lead, she knocks back the rest of her gin and tonic. “Drunk walking,” she says, pointing at him, “is stat-statistic-statistically more dangerous than drunk driving.”

He smiles. Behind his glasses, his bright blue eyes are glassy. He’s had more to drink than she has, but other than that small detail, he doesn’t look the least bit affected. “You’re not driving.”

She rolls her eyes. “ _I know_. I’m just saying.”

“So, what do you propose?”

The bar isn’t too crowded, mostly composed of weeknight regulars trying to catch the game. Alex watches as something happens on one of the television screens, causing several of the other tables to cheer.

“Uber?”

“Uber?” he echoes, looking a little lost.

Alex laughs. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Uber.”

“The German preposition?”

There is another cheer from the surrounding tables. Alex uses the pause to pull up the app on her phone. “It’s like a cab, but more convenient,” she says once the noise has died down.

He studies the phone for a moment, before handing it back. “I’ll settle the tab.”

She watches him slide out of the booth and make his way to the bar. It takes a moment for him to catch a bartender’s attention. She’s a blonde about Alex’s age, wearing a crop top with confidence that Alex envies. She’s clearly into the bearded, flannel-wearing types, because she leans further than she needs to to speak with Strand, cleavage on full display. She touches Strand’s arm and giggles at something he says.

There’s a thrill of something, jealousy maybe, that goes through Alex. One look at Strand, however, is all it takes to dissipate it. He is all business with the bartender, brushing her off in a way that says he hasn’t noticed her efforts at all. Every so often, he looks back at Alex, as if to satisfy himself that she’s still there. She catches his eyes and he turns away to finish signing the receipt. 

When he returns to the table, leaving a visibly disappointed bartender behind, Alex tells him, “Our ride should be here in a few minutes. Want to go wait outside?”

“You won’t be cold?”

Alex shakes her head. “It’ll only be a few minutes. Let’s go.”

The brisk night air is enough to sober her up a little. She shoves her hands in her pockets and stands closer to Strand.

“I would,” he starts, then clears his throat. “I would like to walk you to your door, at least.”

Alex smiles. She feels like she has smiled more this night than she has in a long time. “If you’re going to come all that way, you might as well stay the night.”

He looks down at her, eyes wide behind his glasses.

Alex blames the heat rising in her cheeks on the alcohol. “Amalia is already set up in the spare room, but my couch is pretty comfortable.”

When he looks like he’s about to argue, Alex points at him again. “What did I say about drunk walking?”

Strand cracks a smile.


	6. "Have A Good Day At Work"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer and follows the plot from the previous chapter.

After lying awake in bed for hours, carefully ignoring each shadow moving in the corners of her vision, Alex gets up and gets started with her day. For some reason, she is keenly aware the presence of the man sleeping in her living room. With each stretch of her morning yoga, every breath feels felt heavier with the knowledge that Strand is only a few feet away, separated only by her bedroom wall. She hurries through her shower, almost afraid that when she steps out of her room, damp, but dressed for the day, he will be gone.

He isn’t.

He’s still there, still asleep on her couch. He’s curled up, somehow managing to fit all six foot something of him onto the cushions. He’s buried so deep under the blanket she had offered him the night before that all she can see is a tuft of dark hair. His glasses are on the coffee table, in easy reach. His flannel has been discarded onto the floor, apparently having been shucked off during the night.

Alex tip-toes into the kitchen, grabs the last banana from the bunch, and starts the coffee machine. Outside her window, the sky is still semi-dark. It’s early enough that the sun has not yet risen.

Alex sets herself up on the comfy chair in her living room, her feet pulled up to sit cross-legged on the cushion, her laptop on her lap. 

It only takes a few minutes to catch up on her email. Not sleeping does wonders for keeping up with little chores, like deleting all of the promotional advertisements out of her inbox. There are a few things from Nic, things pertaining to their various podcasts, but she leaves them for now. It’s Saturday, it’s her day off, and her apartment is supposed to be a stress-free zone. Doctor’s orders.

She glances over at Strand and wonders whether having him in her space counts as reducing stress or exacerbating it. 

He makes a noise and Alex looks over. He’s curls into himself further. An arm snakes up to cover his head.

Alex watches him for a long moment, drinking her coffee and keeping an eye out for any signs of rousing. He remains still long enough that Alex goes back to her laptop.

“No,” he says, startling her. She looks up from the article she had been reading, but Strand is still hidden under the blanket.

“Richard?”

“No,” he says again, kicking at the bedding. “No, no, no, no.” 

Putting her computer down on the table, Alex moves closer to him. Not knowing what else to do, she reaches out to touch him, to rouse him up from whatever nightmare he seems to be caught up in. At the same moment, his eyes open. A hand darts up to grab hers, gripping so tight that it hurts.

“Richard,” she yelps, trying to pull her hand away. “It’s me. It’s Alex. You’re in my apartment.”

He lets go of her hand and sits up. He backs as far away from her has the couch will allow. His blue eyes look strange without his glasses, unfocused and, somehow, more unguarded. His hair is a mess. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “Alex, I’m so sorry. I--”

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you while you were having a bad dream.”

“No, I--” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. Alex doesn’t like the painful way he seems to pull at it. He looks over in her direction before she can say anything, however, asking. “Do you know where I left my glasses?”

“Here,” Alex says, picking them up and holding them out.

He takes them and shoves them onto his face. Like putting on a mask, his face composes itself, all traces of residual nightmare fading away.

“Do you want to talk about it?” asks Alex, already knowing the answer.

He shakes his head. “I need to go.”

“How about some breakfast?” she asks.

Strand grabs his flannel from the floor and starts to put it on. “I have a, a lead that I need to follow.”

“This early? The sun hasn’t even risen yet.”

He pauses at that, but only for a moment. He begins to button up the front of his shirt over his wrinkled cotton tee. “Yes. It’s urgent.”

“It wasn’t urgent last night.”

Having finished with the buttons of his shirt, he refuses to look at her. Instead, he looks around for his shoes.

“Basket by the door,” she tells him. 

He has to sit down to put them on. Alex watches, knowing from experience that there isn’t anything she can say that will keep him here.

“Have a good day at work,” she says, instead. She means it to sound teasing, but it comes out wrong. Even to her own ears she sounds disappointed. Resigned, even.

When he looks at her, just before closing the front door behind him, Alex thinks she sees a flash of pain in his eyes.

She tells herself that she is only imagining things, that it is a trick of the light and her overly exhausted mind.


	7. "I dreamt about you last night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following the plot of the last chapter. So if you haven't read the last two chapters, go ahead and do that before reading this one.

She spends the day trying to be as stress-free as possible.

Alex promises herself that she will not think about the podcast, the Black Tapes themselves, or their enigmatic owner for the entirety of her day off. She will especially not think about said owner waking up on her couch or the fear in his eyes after waking from a nightmare or the way he had bolted not five minutes after waking up.

Instead, she focuses on things she would have done before the Black Tapes entered her life, before she and Nic had had the brilliant idea to put together a podcast. She cleans the apartment--finally taking care of the mountain of dishes that has been growing in her sink and even scrubbing the floors. She puts on music and sings along as she cleans. When everything is spotless, she takes a long soak in her tub, lighting candles and adding sweet smelling salts to the water. She comes out looking like a prune, but ultimately feeling more human than she has in a while. 

She frowns when she opens the refrigerator, looking for something to put together for dinner. She has been so busy lately that grocery shopping had fallen off her list of priorities altogether. Beyond a jar of mustard and three different kinds of vinaigrette, the fridge is empty. 

Alex sighs. She doesn’t want to leave, not when she’s already in a pair of fresh pajamas, but she tells herself that it will be good for her to get out of the apartment, to see real people doing mundane things, to be one of those people herself. So she pulls on a pair of jeans, takes a moment to put on some mascara, and makes her way to the store. She picks up a basket full of frozen food, stuff she can just throw in the microwave for the days she comes home too tired to do much of anything, another bunch of bananas, and after a few minutes deliberation, a bottle of wine.

She steps out of the elevator to her floor, humming a song she had heard over the radio, when she stops abruptly, almost dropping the bags in her arms. She blinks, hoping the vision will disappear, just as they all do.

It doesn’t.

There is a body outside her door.

Not just any body.

It’s Strand. 

When she rushes over, kneeling down beside him, the first thing she does is look him over. His eyes are closed, his chin resting on his chest as he leans against the wall, long legs sprawled out in front of him. She doesn’t see any blood, nothing staining his clothes or pooling underneath him, for which she is grateful. 

Dreading the answer, Alex pushes two fingers passed the collar of his coat and under the collar of his flannel--the same flannel he had been wearing the day before--to feel for a pulse.

The body shudders under her touch and Strand groans. “Your fingers are freezing.”

Alex feels a rush of relief so powerful she nearly falls over. She’s also angry. Angry at herself for jumping to conclusions and angry at Strand for making her worry. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Strand sits up. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

Alex glances down at her messenger bag. She had turned her phone off to keep herself from agonizing over it. “Is everything okay?”

He pushes himself to his feet, using the wall for support. “I had to speak with you.”

Shaking her keys out of her pocket, she says, “Let’s go inside. You’re lucky the neighbors didn’t call the cops.”

Strand looks a little embarrassed, but hides it by ducking down to pick up her groceries. “I had not intended to wait for more than a few minutes.”

He follows her inside and places her groceries where she indicates on the kitchen counter. He watches, silently, as she puts each item away.

“Are you going to tell me what’s up? You’re practically vibrating.” She has a feeling that the fine tremors in his hands have more to do with low blood sugar than any desire to speak. She hands him a banana. “Eat that, then spill.”

He sighs, but eats without further protest.

“So?” she asks.

Strand frowns. “I should not have come.”

“Okay, but you did.”

He looks away, at something over her head. His expression is conflicted, which puts her on her guard. She doesn’t think she can handle bad news.

“I dreamt about you last night.”

Alex blinks. “About me?”

He nods.

“The nightmare?”

His mouth thins into a line and he nods again. 

Feeling more than a little confused, Alex asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” He runs his hands through his hair, a habit he’s formed over the last few weeks. “I just--needed to talk to you. To make sure you were okay. But your phone was off. So I came here. To see you.”

He meets her eyes briefly, then huffs out a laugh. “I may have panicked.” 

Alex takes his arm and leads him over to the couch. Sitting beside him, she pulls her feet up. The blanket he had used the night before is folded on the end of the couch, so she takes it and spreads it across their laps. “Tell me. About your nightmare.”

His fingers fidget with the blanket, plucking at nonexistent lint. “We were driving down the highway to Big Sur.”

“You and Coralee?”

He sighs. There is a bit of color rising in his pale cheeks. “You and I.” 

“Oh.” She takes a moment to process this information. “And then what?”

“We were fighting. I can’t remember what was being said. It doesn’t matter. We stopped.”

“And I disappeared.” She doesn’t have to phrase it as a question.

“You were so angry. You walked away, down the highway. I turned around for a second--an instant--and you were gone.”

Alex doesn’t think. She does what she would do for anyone she knew was hurting. She ducks under the arm closest to her and puts her arms around him. His whole body is tense against her, but she doesn’t let go.

He clears his throat. “Alex?”

“Hush. You aren’t the only one who needs this.”

“Oh.” Gingerly, he places his arm around her.

“Stay,” she says into his chest. “I’ll order pizza and we can watch a movie.”

“A movie?”

“This is a stress-free zone. And my day off.”

It takes him a long time to answer. When he does, it’s with a simple, “Alright.”

Neither of them moves for a long time.


	8. "Take My Seat"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to short, stand-alone chapters, for now.

She should have just stayed in bed.

Her head is just a long line of pain--from her sore throat to her swollen sinuses to the throbbing headache pounding merciless through her skull.

She sniffles and shuffles her way into Nic’s office.

Nic looks up from his notepad and frowns. Since they had already had the argument over whether she should go home, all he says is “Hey, Alex.”

Sitting across from him, his back to Alex in the nearest chair, is Dr. Strand. “Ms. Reagan,” he says, still scribbling something down in a worn leather notebook. When he finishes, he looks up. Seeing Nic’s expression, he turns around to look at her.

The heavy chair makes an awful noise as it scrapes against the tile floor. Before she knows what is happening, Strand is in front of her, ushering her forward. “Here. Take my seat.”

Alex sits, giving him a wan smile. “Nic, Dr. Strand, sorry I’m late.”

There’s a now familiar tickle in her throat. Burying her face in her elbow, she starts to cough. When she’s done, her throat feels raw and her head feels like an overfilled balloon. She groans.

“You should be in bed,” says Nic.

She shakes her head and immediately regrets it. She has to wait for the room to settle before she can respond. “I already told you, I’m not going to be able to sleep. I might as well work through whatever this, this bug is.”

Strand has still not sat down. He stands, towering over her, brows drawn down in concern. When she sneezes, he snatches the box of tissues from Nic’s desk and holds it out to her.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, taking the entire box and commandeering it for herself. She’ll buy Nic a new box, one that isn’t infested with her germs.

“Would you like anything?” Strand blurts. “Tea? Water? Have you taken anything?”

Nic looks like he’s trying very hard not to smile. He covers his mouth with a hand and Alex knows he’s lost the battle.

“Everything in my apartment is expired,” says Alex. “I was going to pick some more medicine up on my way home from work.”

Strand frowns. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. He looks over at Nic, then back at Alex, then back to his discarded notes. 

“I have to go,” he says.

Alex tries to get out of her chair, but he puts up a hand to stop her. 

“No, Dr. Strand, don’t go. If you’re worried about getting sick--”

“You and Nic can continue without me. Feel better, Ms. Reagan.”

After he leaves, Alex crosses her arms and slouches in her chair. She is sick and miserable and definitely not pouting. “It’s just a cold. He didn’t have to leave.”

Nic, despite Strand’s sudden departure, has not stopped smiling.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing. I just didn’t know Strand was such a mother hen.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

Later, when they’ve finished their meeting, Alex walks back to her office with her box of tissues and notes compiled for Strand clutched to her like a lifeline. Her head is killing her. All she wants, as she opens the door and closes it gently behind her, is to sit down and try not to think of how terrible she feels.

On her desk is a basket, but instead of fruit or candy or anything she might expect to find in a basket, there is an arrangement of cold medicines--bottles of liquid medicine, daytime and nighttime pills, and even a package of cough drops. Alex looks for a note, but doesn’t find one.

Still, she knows who is responsible.

_Mother hen, indeed_ , she thinks, tearing into a blister pack of orange pills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting! It means so much to me that you are all enjoying this monster. <3


	9. "I saved a piece for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said that these were short one-shots? This one might be a little longer.

“Ruby?” Alex asks, voice husky with the little sleep she had managed to get before the phone rang. She rolls over to check the alarm clock on the bedside table. The large red numbers tell her that it’s a little after midnight. “It’s late--what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry to wake you up like this, Ms. Reagan, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

Alex sits up and switches on the lamp. “No, it’s okay. Is this about Dr. Strand?”

“I, yes. Something happened--I don’t know what, he won’t tell me. You’re still in Chicago, right?”

“My flight leaves tomorrow morning. Should I cancel it?”

“No, no, don’t cancel. I just--could you come to the Institute?”

Alex frowns. “I could stop by on my way to the airport--”

“No,” Ruby interrupts, “I mean, now. Could you come to the Institute right now?”

Alex is already tossing her bedding aside, already looking for the jeans she had worn the previous day. “It’s that serious?”

Ruby’s voice wavers on the other end of the line. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“I’m on my way. Do you need me to stay on the line with you?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about. Please hurry.”

The line disconnects.

Ruby is waiting for her in the lobby when Alex rushes in. The other woman looks calm and collected, but there is something in her eyes that makes Alex want to skip the elevator and run up the several flights of stairs to Strand’s office.

“How is he? What happened?”

“He’s...quiet. Quieter, I mean. Than before.”

Alex takes a deep breath. She tries to push away her personal feelings and be objective. It wouldn’t do anyone, Ruby especially, any good if she starts to panic. “What do you mean? Tell me from the beginning.”

They step into the elevator and Alex pushes the button for Strand’s floor. Ruby slumps against the railing, looking like the entire night has just caught up with her.

“I was working late. He’s been staying here, spending nights at the office, like I told you. So I wasn’t surprised, well, I was surprised, because there was this loud crash. I went to see if everything was alright and he was just staring at the floor, at a bunch of pieces of broken glass. I asked if he was okay and he just, he just lost it.”

The elevator makes a cheerful sound to indicate that they have reached their floor. Ruby collects herself and leads the way back to her desk. Alex wants to push for more answers, but she forces herself to wait until Ruby stops, just before they reach her desk and the closed door of Strand’s office.

“Be careful, okay?” At Alex’s expression, Ruby backtracks. “I didn’t mean it like that! He wouldn’t hurt me. Or you. He was just yelling and--”

“And?”

Ruby frowns, the worry line just above her brow the only blemish on her otherwise beautiful face. “Sort of destroying his office.”

Putting her hand on Ruby’s shoulder, Alex tells her, “I’ll handle it. Go home and get some sleep.”

Once Ruby is back on the elevator and the doors have slid closed, Alex doesn’t bother knocking on the door to Strand’s office. Much like she had done weeks before, she slips in, shutting the door behind her on silent hinges.

Despite Ruby’s warning, seeing Strand’s office in shambles is still a shock. Pages, from hand-scrawled notes that used to comprise Strand’s conspiracy walls to those torn out of books, litter the floor. VHS tape cases have been pulled from the shelves, contents spilling out in all directions. Strand’s desk, an impressive mahogany piece, has even been turned on its side. In the center of all the chaos sits Strand.

The man himself is also a mess. His hair is wild, making it obvious that it has been long-since due for a cut. He’s wearing a dark green flannel, open in the front to display a faded grey undershirt. The cuffs of his sleeves have come unbuttoned and he isn’t wearing any shoes.

“Dr. Strand?” she calls, keeping her voice soft. She’s half afraid that, like a spooked animal, he will lash out.

He doesn’t. Head still bowed, he says, “Please go.”

Alex ignores him. “Looks like you’ve been redcorating.” 

He laughs, head bobbing with the single exhalation of his specific brand of laughter. 

“Ruby called me,” she says, closing a VHS case with the toe of her sneaker. She doesn’t want to step on anything or cause any more damage than has already been done, so she has to pick her way across the office.

“I frightened her.” It isn’t a question.

“Yeah, you did.”

His shoulders sag. He still has not looked up at her. He’s staring at his hands, cradling something in his lap. “I should apologize.”

“Yeah, you should. Tomorrow, though. I sent her home.”

He doesn’t argue that Ruby is his assistant or that Alex has no authority to send her home for the night.

“I can see that you’re not okay,” Alex says, coming to kneel down beside him. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If it didn’t matter, then I’m sure you wouldn’t have turned your office into a disaster area.”

Strand finally looks up. His eyes are red behind his glasses and his hair hangs into his face, like a sort of shield. “Please don’t make excuses for my behavior. It was a...moment of weakness.”

Alex puts her hand down on one of his. He flinches, drawing back to reveal that he had been holding onto a large shard of glass.

Picking it up between two careful fingers and examining it, Alex can guess that the painted ceramic had once been part of a cup or mug of some kind. There is an unsteady line and part of a curve that hinted at some kind of writing, but there isn’t enough to make out.

“It was a Father’s Day gift from Charlie. Something Coralee had helped her with when she was in kindergarten.” 

“Oh, Richard.”

“I was careless. I pushed a stack of books aside to write a note, for my research. It fell and shattered. I remember looking at the pieces and my mind was just--blank. And then all at once there was noise, overwhelming noise. It was like I was outside of myself, watching as this devastated, furious man caused,” he makes a weak motion with his hand, indicating the rest of the room, “all of this.” 

“I’m so sorry.”

He sighs and pushes himself up. “Don’t apologize. Like I said, careless.”

Rising to her own feet, Alex says, “I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be careless.”

“Then you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Alex opens her mouth to argue, but he beats her to it. “Please, Alex. Just go.”

“Richard--”

“I’ll be back in Seattle in a couple of days. Please. I will see you then.”

Alex looks from him to the devastation of the office and finally, down at the shard of glass still in her hand. She wraps her hand around it, careful not to cut herself, and nods. “Okay.”

As she goes to leave, she says, “Please, take care of yourself. Call me if you need anything.”

The door is nearly shut when she hears, “Goodnight Alex.”

“Goodnight, Richard,” she says, once the door is fully closed.

She doesn’t hear from him again until his flight lands in Seattle. A few texts from Ruby, however, had kept her up-to-date. By the time Ruby had come in the following morning, she had reported finding his office once again spotless, as if the entire incident had not occurred.

They meet for coffee after he gets settled into his hotel room. He still looks just as tired as when she had last seen him, but his spirits seem to be up. He tells her, talking animatedly with his hands, about the research he had been doing and his latest findings. She waits for things to quiet down before she slides the shard of glass over the table. “I saved a piece for you. I thought you might want to have it.”

He blinks at it for a moment. “I-” he starts, then swallows. “Thank you.”

Alex hadn’t been expecting such heartfelt gratitude, not over a piece of shattered glass. All she can think to say is, “You’re welcome.”


	10. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Upon entering Alex’s office, Richard Strand notices two things. The first thing that he notices is the mournful orchestral music coming from the speakers of Alex’s computer. The second thing that he notices is that Alex Reagan is crying.

He stops short and resists the urge to back out of the room.

The flight response is rational, in his case. His body has adapted this way over the course of his life to this same set of stimuli--weeping young woman, mascara running, in obvious distress--in some sort of attempt at self-preservation. Years of living with women has taught him that it is in his best interests to be very far away when there are tears involved.

“I can,” he says, pausing to clear his throat, “return at another time.” 

Alex nods, wiping at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “I’m sorry. I know we had a meeting scheduled, but I didn’t expect--”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her green eyes are still dangerously close to overflowing when she opens them again. “Just give me a few minutes. I’m,” she sniffles, “I’m alright.”

Permission granted, Strand intends to make his escape, perhaps to brew them both a soothing cup of tea. His feet, however, seem to have another idea entirely. They take him away from the doorway, away from the relative safety that the break room would bestow, and further into Alex’s office.

So much for self-preservation.

“What happened?” he asks, trying for a comforting tone and wincing when it comes out sounding brusque, even to his own ears.

“Intern Cameron died last night,” she says, wiping again at her eyes.

The image of his assistant, Travis, comes to mind. Travis Collinwood had been a good kid and a hard-working assistant. His loss had hit Strand hard. Harder than he had expected. He can imagine the pain that Alex must be in. Softer, he asks, “How did it happen?”

“Old age, as far as we can tell.”

Strand blinks. “Old age?”

“I mean, they don’t live that long. Two to four years, generally, but it’s just, just so sad.” A few stray tears fall from her lashes.

Either Strand’s hearing is on its way out or something doesn’t quite add up.

Alex must see his expression, because her eyes go wide. “Oh, no, Dr. Strand. Intern Cameron is my betta fish! Not an actual intern!”

“Your betta fish?”

“You never saw him? The tank is on the bookshelf, there, see?” She points to one of the bookshelves lining the walls, where there is, in fact, a medium sized fish tank. Despite there being no fish, the filter continues to bubble and an LED shines down on plastic, neon decor. “The interns, our real interns, named him. They would take turns feeding him every day. You really didn’t notice?”

“I had not.”

Blushing, covers her eyes. “I’m sorry, it must seem so silly to be this upset over a fish.”

He almost agrees with her, but his self-preservation instinct must kick back in. He coughs, instead. 

“It’s normal human nature to become attached to a pet,” he says. The words come out sounding detached, almost clinical. He closes his eyes and tries again. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Alex smiles up at him. “Thank you, Dr. Strand. That means a lot.”

“I’ll go make some tea.” 

A strategic retreat will ensure he doesn’t upset her further and give her time to dry her tears. And give him time to push the urge to take her into his arms, to comfort her, far, far down into himself. For the sake of self-preservation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No betta fish were harmed during the writing of this chapter. The real Intern Cameron (last name Fisk) the betta fish is still alive. He's swimming in his tank not one foot away from me.


	11. "You can have half."

“C’mon,” Alex says, pushing her plate towards Strand. “You can have half.”

He shakes his head, hair falling out of place. It’s gotten so long that it nearly hangs into his eyes. “As I said, I’m not hungry.”

Alex frowns. Ruby had been right when she told Alex that Strand was getting skinnier. She had taken one look at him, face gaunt under the beard and clothes practically hanging off of him, and had dragged him out to eat. While she had ordered a sandwich, Strand had waved away the waitress. 

Before she can open her mouth to argue, her phone vibrates near her elbow. Strand nods his head, giving her permission to check the message.

It’s from a number not in her contacts list. It says, _He likes sweets._

Alex taps out a reply. _Who is this?_

She waits, but there is no answering text.

“Anything important?” asks Strand.

“No, no. Just a wrong number.”

The waitress stops by their table, her highlighter yellow hair swishing in a ponytail behind her as she looks from Alex to Strand. She gives them a big smile and with a charming Southern accent asks, “Can I tempt ya’ll with dessert today?”

“No--” 

“Yes!”

Strand gives her a questioning look, tired eyes narrowed. “Alex?”

She shrugs. “What? I’m craving something sweet.”

“What will you have, darlin’?” asks the waitress. She readies her pencil against her notepad. Alex notices that the pencil is strange--it looks like a tree branch with a cartoon skull on the end of it--before scanning the menu. 

“How about the brownie? With vanilla ice cream?” 

Alex looks up at Strand, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looks away.

The waitress scribbles down Alex’s order and smiles down at her. “Oh, that’s a good choice. Will that be all for now?”

Alex nods and the waitress moves on. 

The dessert she sets down in front of Alex, when she comes back shortly after, looks amazing. The brownie looks warm and rich, dripping chocolate fudge topping from one side. The perfect globe of ice cream set just beside it has started to melt, only to be soaked up by the bottom of the brownie. 

Alex hadn’t missed the way Strand’s eyes had followed the plate as the waitress brought it over. And she doesn’t miss the way he licks his lips and drags his gaze back to his own side of the table once it’s in front of her.

She takes a bite of the brownie, making sure to get a little of the ice cream with it. It’s just as good as it looks. It takes a lot for her to push the plate away and say, “Actually, I’m full. Can you finish this?”

Strand frowns. His cool blue eyes flick from her to the dessert and then away. “You could ask for a box.”

“The ice cream will melt,” she points out. “And I really don’t want to waste it. Please?”

Alex has more faith that his stomach finally convinces him over her attempt at puppy-dog eyes. He pulls the dish closer with a muttered “Fine.”

She takes a sip from her bottle of Naked juice, doing her best not to appear too eager to watch him unroll his silverware and take a bite of the brownie. 

His eyes slip closed and he sighs. His shoulders relax a little as he breathes out. 

“Good?” Alex asks, unable to keep the grin off of her face.

He’s already scooping up another bite. “Yes,” he says, and then quieter, “Thank you.”

Alex laughs. “No, thank _you_. I guess my eyes were a little more eager than my stomach.”

He finishes the dessert, even going so far as to scoop up the remains of liquified ice cream and chocolate fudge with a spoon. Alex notices that his skin looks less gray and that his eyes are a little more bright than they had been.

“And how was everything?” asks the waitress, as she returns to the table. She sets the check on the edge of the table. “Can I get these dishes out of your way?”

Alex reaches for the check at the same time as Strand. His hand is warm underneath hers. Alex freezes and looks up, a blush rising in her cheeks.

“Let me,” he says.

“I got it,” she says.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Strand raises an eyebrow, expectant. Neither of them move.

“Well, aren’t you two cute!” says the waitress, smiling as she makes her way to a newly sat couple a few booths down.

Alex snatches her hand away, the blush now burning all the way up to her ears.

~*~

For every meal they eat during his visit, Alex forcing him away from his work at regular intervals, she makes sure to order something sweet for Strand. They may not be healthy calories, but she argues with herself that any calories are better than none at all. By the time she drops him off at the airport, he no longer looks dead on his feet.

Alex sends an email to Ruby, who must have sent the original text giving her the insider information on Strand’s sweet-tooth. She’s the only person she knows who would be close enough to Strand to know something so personal. She thanks Ruby for the tip, joking about how much easier it is to get him to eat when there is sugar involved.

Something cold runs through her when she receives the reply. 

She reads the email over again and again, but the words stay the same.

_I never sent you a text._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEN WHO WAS PHONE?!


	12. "Take my jacket. It's cold outside."

Alex opens her front door expecting to see Nic, or Amalia without her key, only to find Strand on the other side. In a tuxedo.

“Uh, hi.”

He’s cleaned himself up a bit. The beard is still present, but he’s trimmed it, made it look less wild. His hair, left to grow out, looks like it might have gotten a trim. It’s pushed back away from his forehead, much like he had worn it when they’d first met. “Hello.”

There is an awkward pause where they both stare at each other.

“May I, may I come in?”

Alex shakes herself and backs away from the door. “Yeah, sorry. Come on in.”

He looks strange, standing in her living room in formal attire. His hands clench at his side, like he isn’t quite sure what he should do with them.

“So, what’s up?” Alex asks.

“Thomas Warren will be at a charity gala. Here, in Seattle. Tonight.”

“That explains the tux. So, what, you’re just going to go crash the party?”

Strand settles on shoving his hands in his pockets. “I have tickets.”

Alex grins. “How many strings did you have to pull to score that?”

“He invited me.”

“Invited you? Why?”

Frowning, Strand pulls out an envelope and hands it to her. It’s made from simple, yet heavy burgundy paper. In golden cursive, written on the front of the envelope is only ‘Dr. Richard Strand.’ Inside the envelope, Alex finds two tickets. There is no accompanying note.

“It was delivered to the Institute. He knows I’ve been spending my time in the office, not at home.”

“You still think he’s the Advocate, that’ he’s the one Brother Lewis was talking about watching you.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“And so you’re just going to go confront him? In the middle of a gala event?”

Strand looks away, busying himself with putting the envelope back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“What if this is a trap?” Alex pushes.

His cool blue eyes are soft when they meet hers again. There are traces of an almost-smile on his face. “This isn’t some summer blockbuster. It’s likely we won’t even cross paths with him.”

“Wait, we?”

“I had hoped--I have two tickets. Would you like to accompany me?”

“I still don’t understand. Why would Warren invite you to a party? What would he be hoping to achieve?”

Strand shrugs. It’s a simple movement, but it strikes her as something out of character, like when he had first texted her. It goes against the image she has built up of him in her head. The picture crumbles just a little bit more and Alex wonders how long it will be before the image of the real man emerges.

“I don’t know. Why would he take my coffee? Perhaps it is a power play. By sending the tickets to my office, he is admits he is still watching me.”

Alex shakes her head. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch?”

Strand’s expression hardens. “You are still not convinced that Warren is the Advocate.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Anyone could have sent those tickets. And I don’t think it’s smart to play into whatever hand this is.”

His eyes flick down and away. “So you won’t come?”

“I didn’t say that. I can see that you’re going to go regardless of what I say. And I’m not going to let you go alone. Let me see if I have anything to wear.”

Strand lets out a breath, as if he has been holding it in for a long time. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she grins, already on her way into her bedroom. “I’m reserving the right to say ‘I told you so’ when this all goes up in flames.”

If Strand replies, she doesn’t hear anything.

Because of her job, Alex prefers to wear jeans and sensible shoes. Which is why she ends up frowning at clothing she has hanging in her closet. She does have a dress, one that she had worn to a friend’s wedding, but it’s been years since she’s worn it. She has to dig all the way into the back of her closet to find it.

She slides it on over her head, finding with a frown that it fits, but a little more loosely than it should. She pokes at a rib and promises herself to eat better--her insomnia has completely killed her appetite over the last few weeks.

The dress is simple, yet classy. Her favorite thing about it, the reason she had bought it in the first place, is not that it hugs her curves, but the old-fashioned sweetheart neckline and the inch-long ruffle at the hem. She puts on a pair of strappy heels, ones that aren’t too high and won’t pose too much threat of falling on her ass. She switches out her usual dangly earrings for gold studs. Her hair she leaves as is, only running a brush through it, and the only makeup she applies is a bit of eyeliner and a few swipes of mascara. 

She comes out of her bedroom holding the gold chain of a necklace out to Strand. “Can you help me with this? The chain is really delicate--what?”

He is staring at her, eyes wide.

Alex looks down at herself, having instant misgivings over her outfit. “It’s really the only dress I have,” she says, when he continues to stare.

“It’s beautiful--you’re beautiful.”

She can feel the blush rising high up her face, possibly all the way into her hairline.

Shaking himself, Strand moves, finally. Reaching out to take the necklace from her, his fingers brush hers. She turns her back to him, partially to help him put the necklace on and partially to have an excuse to hide her face. He can probably still see the burning red of her ears.

His hands move behind her, after a long pause. He gathers her hair and sweeps it over one shoulder, taking care to catch all the stray hairs on the back of her neck. A moment later, the necklace settles against her collarbone and he steps away. 

“Are you ready?” He asks, voice quiet in the sudden silence of her apartment.

“Yeah. Let me just get my purse.”

~*~*~

The party is nice. Alex has a few glasses of champagne and watches the different couples. Strand’s eyes move over the crowd, looking for Thomas Warren.

The party is nice, until it isn’t. Until the smell of smoke starts to rise in the air, until the fire alarms begin to wail, until party guests nearly trample each other on their way to the exits.

“I told you so,” Alex says as they stare up at the building burning in front of them. “Though, I didn’t mean it quite so literally.”

The lights from the fire trucks pla over Strand’s frowning face. He’s still scanning the people around them for Warren.

Alex shivers, despite the heat radiating from the building or the crowd of spectators around them.

“Take my jacket,” says Strand. “It’s cold outside.”

He looks pained at having stated the obvious, but starts to shrug out of his tuxedo jacket.

Holding up a hand, Alex stops him. “I’d rather just--” She snakes her arms around his waist, leaning into the warmth of him. She can hear his heart beating rapid-fire through each layer of his tux. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” His body is tense, but his arms come up to circle her shoulders, holding her more firmly against him as he remembers what it’s like to embrace another person. He clears his throat. “Is this better?”

“Much.”


	13. "Sorry I'm Late."

“Sorry I’m late,” says Strand. He’s so tall that he fills up her entire doorway. He has to duck a little so he doesn’t hit his head when he steps into her apartment.

She’s spent the entire day cleaning, making sure everything is spotless, but there is still a flash of anxiety that goes through her when he takes a second to look around. He’s never actually been inside of her apartment--they’ve been in each other’s offices and hotel rooms, but Alex hasn’t seen Strand’s home and he’s never had a reason to visit her at her apartment. Until now.

“Did you bring it?” Alex asks, eyeing the leather messenger bag at his hip.

“Yes.”

Alex glares up at him. “And?”

Strand looks like he’s trying very hard not to smile. “And do you know how difficult this was to find?”

“Seriously?”

“I had to ask Ruby for her help.”

Alex can feel the blush burning her cheeks. “You didn’t.”

Strand loses the battle and his lips turn up. She’d be glad to see his signature wry smile if he weren’t taking so much pleasure in her pain. “I did.”

“You didn’t--you didn’t tell her what it was for, right?”

“No, but Ruby is a clever young woman.”

“Great,” mutters Alex.

“I can always buy her silence.” 

He says it so offhand that Alex can’t help the smile that blooms on her face. “You would bribe your own assistant?”

“You don’t bribe your interns?”

Alex laughs. “Not unless you count the occasional pizza.”

Realizing that they’re still standing in the entryway, Alex motions him into her living room. “Why don’t you set it up? I’ll make some popcorn.”

“Certainly.”

The popcorn doesn’t take long to pop. Alex dumps two bags of the microwavable stuff into the biggest bowl she has. She grabs two beers out of her fridge and makes her way back into the living room.

Strand is sitting on her couch, long legs crossed at the ankles. He looks like he belongs there. Alex shoves that thought back into the Not Right Now category of her brain and hands him one of the beers. She sits down beside him, the popcorn bowl resting between them. He hands her the remote to her DVD player when she holds out her hand for it.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen Lilo & Stitch,” she says, directing the cursor on the screen to play the movie.

She regrets her words almost immediately, seeing his smile falter and the sadness that creeps into his eyes. 

“I’m sorry. It probably came out after, after Charlie--”

“Left. Yes.” He takes a long pull from his beer.

“Did she--Did Charlie like--?”

He doesn’t talk about Charlie often, so Alex doesn’t expect it when he says, voice soft, “She liked Alice In Wonderland.”

Alex smiles. “That’s a good one.”

They sit in silence as the rest of the previews for movies long released play on. As childish as it makes her feel, she still gets a thrill when the Disney castle appears, lit up by Tinkerbell. Alex pats Strand’s arm, almost upsetting the popcorn bowl in the process. “This is a good one too.”

Strand smiles and the movie plays on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forget that Lilo & Stitch is available for streaming on Netflix. Or, better yet, remember that Lilo & Stitch is available for streaming on Netflix and go watch it. :D


	14. "Can I have this dance?"

“Do you dance, Dr. Strand?” Alex asks. It has taken her a while to find him, tucked away from the rest of the party.

“Not if I can help it.” He barely looks at her when he answers. Instead, he scowls into his drink as if it has somehow personally offended him.

Alex wonders if it is the crowd that has put him in such a bad mood, or if it’s because she had dragged him away from his research.

She smiles, determined to make the best of things. “You’ve made quite the impression on my family.”

His cool blue eyes meet hers, just for a moment, before they slide back to the glass in his hand. “Have I?”

“Yeah. Especially the kids. They’ve never seen a giant before.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and takes a sip of his drink, hiding a flash of teeth as he smiles. It’s true, though. Alex’s family has never been particularly tall and Strand stands at least a head taller than the people around him. If he didn’t look so imposing, wearing a dark suit and a Don’t Come Near Me frown, he’d have a posse of children at his feet.

They stand in silence for a long moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. Alex watches Strand out of the corner of her eye as her family--most of them drunk by now--celebrate around them. His frown seems to have been smoothed away--whether it’s due to her presence or the alcohol, Alex finds it hard to tell. 

“Thanks for coming with me,” Alex says. “I wasn’t sure if it would be weird to invite you to my cousin’s wedding.”

“Certainly.” It’s difficult to hear him over the music, so Alex moves closer. “The ceremony was lovely.”

“It was. Ashley looks like a real-life princess.”

Strand’s lips twitch up into a smirk. “Her groom has an interesting taste in footwear.”

Alex laughs. Eric is wearing a pair of metallic silver sneakers with his suit. They flash against the lighted dance floor as his spins his bride around. “What can I say? He’ll fit right in with the family.”

The song changes from one song to another and then another until the booming bass of Kesha transitions into something soft and slow. Couples pair off, many of the older folks simply swaying in time. Alex smiles and sighs happily as she watches her cousin and the newest addition to their family chat, even as he holds her close as they dance.

Beside her, Strand shifts. His hand comes into her field of vision and he clears his throat. “Can I have this dance?”

Alex can’t help but tease him, even as she takes his hand. “I thought you didn’t dance.”

“I’m making an exception.”

Even in heels, Strand is much taller than her. Alex settles for resting a hand on his chest rather than his shoulder. His hand is a comforting weight at her waist, the tips of his fingers brushing her skin at the open back of her dress. “Is this okay?” He asks.

“It’s perfect.”

He laughs, ducking his head. “You say that now. I’ll try not to step on you.”

They start with a comfortable distance between them, but as the song plays, Alex finds herself drawing closer to him until her head is resting against him and his arm circles her back. He’s warm and Alex can’t help but close her eyes and breathe in the scent of him, a subtle mixture of soap and cologne and expensive scotch. For the first time in ages, she feels safe.

The song ends too soon. Alex reopens her eyes like someone waking from a pleasant dream, blinking several times as they step away from each other. Strand’s hand has found its way back to her waist, feeling like it has always belonged there.

He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t get the chance.

“Alex! Dr. Strand!” 

Alex’s mother pushes her way through the crowd. Alex nearly groans at the huge, inebriated smile on her face.

“Mom, hey.”

“I saw you two dancing and, _my_ , don’t you make an _adorable_ couple!”

Strand’s hand disappears from Alex’s waist. She honestly doesn't blame him. Her mom can come on a bit strong. Especially when it comes to the men--or recent lack thereof--in Alex’s life. She only hopes that she can keep her mother from completely embarrassing her before the night is over.

“Now, Dr. Strand, you be sure Alex gets back to the hotel at a _respectable_ time. A young lady needs her beauty rest.”

“Mom!” Alex tries to shoot her a warning look, but it goes right over the other woman’s head.

“What, Alex?”

Alex sighs. ”Nothing.” 

“Isn’t that dress gorgeous on my Alex? I wasn’t sure at first--this spring has been a little too chilly for showing so much skin, but Alex certainly pulls it off, don’t you agree?”

Alex feels like a kid again, wishing to be swallowed up by the earth beneath her. 

Strand’s eyes meet hers, sparkling in the light from the dance floor. “I do.”

Alex’s mother looks absolutely delighted by his answer. Turning to Alex, she mouths the words ‘keep him.’ 

Out loud, she says, “Well, I’ll just leave you two alone. I should check on your grandmother, make sure she hasn’t had _too_ much to drink. You know how she is at parties.”

As soon as she’s gone, Alex says, “I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says.

There’s a slight upturn of his lips that tells Alex that he’s more amused than annoyed. Her shoulders relax, tension she didn’t even know she was holding in melting away. “Hey, do you want to get out of here?”

His eyes search hers, for what, Alex isn’t sure. After a moment, Strand nods. His hand comes up, settling on the bare skin of her lower back as he guides her through the crowd. 

In the parking lot, as they make their way toward Alex’s rental car, Strand’s thumb moves against her in a caress that manages to be both soothing and electrifying. They stop in front of the driver’s door, but Alex makes no move to pull out the keys. Instead, she leans into his touch.

He hesitates, perhaps not having realized what he was doing until Alex called attention to it, but then his thumb starts to move again. “Alex,” he says, voice far more husky than she’s ever heard it.

She turns around and his hand comes to rest again on her waist, just where it belongs. His eyes are intense as he looks at her. “Alex,” he says again.

Alex thinks it’s the rawness of hope that she sees there that causes her to wrap her fingers around his tie and pull him down for a kiss. The fingers of his free hand tangle in her hair as he tilts his head, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

She pulls away, breathless, but grinning. “Come on. There has to be a coffee shop still open around here somewhere.”

He rounds the car to the passenger door. “Didn’t your mother say you need your beauty rest?”

Alex throws him a look as she buckles herself in. “Are you saying I _need_ beauty rest?”

A corner of his mouth comes up in a wry smile. He catches Alex looking at his lips and his eyes darken. “No. I’m not saying that at all.”

Alex reaches over, straining against her seat belt, and pulls him into another kiss.

It’s a long time before their car leaves the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to picture Alex's mom as Lizzie's mom from The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. 
> 
> This chapter was also based a little bit on my cousin's wedding in August of 2015. Literal princess with a sparkling lighted dance floor, groom wearing silver Nike's, drunk gramma, and all. :P


	15. "I made your favorite."

“You have to eat.”

“As I said, I’m not hungry.”

“Come on,” Alex says, “I made your favorite.”

She pulls a tupperware container out of her bag and pushes it across the table. He looks at it for a long time.

“I’m worried about you, okay? Ruby is worried about you. We’re _all_ worried about you.”

The expression in his eyes when he looks up at her is hard to read. “I could say the same about you.”

Alex smiles, or tries to, but it comes out weak and probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah, well, I’ve already been forced to take a vacation for my health. Since nobody can force you to do the same, the least I can do is get you to eat.”

He doesn’t respond, not with words. His fingers crack the top off of the container and Alex swears she can hear his stomach growl when he sees the contents.

Alex hands him a fork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is so short. Was going to make it longer, but the chapter wanted to end right where it did. Who am I to argue with it?


	16. "It's okay. I could't sleep anyway."

Alex screams herself awake. 

Her room is still dark. When she crawls out of bed to reach her cell phone (placed across the room at the insistence of her sleep therapist), it tells her that it’s only four in the morning. She’d been asleep for a good five hours before the nightmare woke her. She doesn’t have to be awake for at least three more.

Sighing, Alex grabs a pillow from her bed and her cell phone. The living room is quiet, but the television is on with the volume almost muted.

Strand looks up once she enters her field of vision, then returns his gaze to the television with a frown. 

“I thought I’d heard you,” he says.

Alex flops onto the other side of the couch with a grimace, hugging her pillow close. “Did I wake you? Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I couldn't sleep anyway.”

Silence reigns for a long moment. Curious, Alex looks over to the television to see what Strand is watching. She nearly laughs out loud in disbelief. “Is that my Netflix queue?”

He nods, eyes still glued to the screen. “What is it about vampires that fascinates young women?”

Alex opens her mouth to answer, but Strand makes a face. “On second thought, I could make several educated guesses. Why do you, of all people, watch this?”

Alex shrugs against the cushions of the couch. “It’s kind of like a car wreck, to be honest. Amelia put it on, but three episodes later, I was invested. I have to find out what happens to this dysfunctional vampire family now.”

They watch the episode until the credits begin to roll. The next episode starts to play, but is interrupted by a block of text asking, “Are you still watching?”

Strand curses under his breath and looks around him for the remote control. Alex laughs. “You’re invested now, aren’t you?”

The glare Strand shoots her says clearly, ‘How dare you accuse me of that, I am a serious academic.’

Alex laughs again, long and hard. She has to wipe tears from the edges of her eyes. By the time she surfaces for air, the episode has started to play, the remote balanced on Strand’s knee.

Even though it’s too early in the morning and Strand is still in his clothes from the day before, the scene strikes Alex as so domestic. She wonders if this is how Strand spends his time at home, when he isn't crashing on her couch, on the run from a secret shadow organization of monks bent on total annihilation. “You don’t know what a torrent is and Twitter confuses you, but you can work a smart TV?”

He laughs, his chest rising and falling with an amused puff of air, but his attention is already back on Klaus and his vampire brothers and sisters. After a moment, her words must sink in because he tears his eyes away long enough to say, “I’m not _that_ old.”

Alex smiles up at him, an innocent expression pasted onto her face. “I never said you were.”

The corner of his mouth turns up in his usual wry smile.

Another few minutes tick by. Alex is thankful that Strand chose to watch earlier episodes, episodes she’s already seen, so she doesn’t have to pay too much attention to the plot. Instead, she watches Strand watch--and enjoy, despite himself--a show clearly not meant for his demographic.

His voice cuts through the near-quiet of her apartment, surprising her. “Do you want to talk about it? Your nightmare?”

“Not particularly.”

He shrugs, respecting her privacy.

Which is probably why she says, “I thought it was getting better.”

Strand pauses the show, turning to face her. “The nightmares or the insomnia?”

Alex sighs. “Both, I guess? The vacation helped, it really did, but I feel like it’s creeping its way back into my life. I’m still getting way more sleep than I was, which I’m grateful about, but I’m afraid that--”

She cuts herself off, feeling silly for unburdening herself, never mind that he had asked. He’s her friend, her coworker, her podcast subject, but he definitely isn't her therapist. She comforts herself knowing that she'd feel just as silly spilling her guts for Nic.

“Afraid?” He prompts. His voice is gentle in the sudden darkness. Her TV must have gone to sleep.

“What if I can’t ever sleep again? What if I'm doomed to walking through life in a sleepless fog? Never knowing how much of what I am seeing is a hallucination or a dream?”

Strand’s arm comes into focus, gently extricating the pillow out of her death grip. He puts it on his lap and guides her down by the shoulder until she is laying down, tucked beside him with her head on the pillow. He doesn’t say anything, just presses play on the remote.

His voice is a deep rumble, something she can feel deep in her chest when he speaks. “A lot has happened in the last year, but I promise, this is not over. We’ll beat this.”

“Together?” She knows the answer, but she has to hear him say it, has to feel the words reverberate inside her.

“Yes.”

She reaches up, runs her fingers down the side of his face. His lips catch the inside of her wrist, making her shiver. “We’ll find Charlie. You have to believe that.”

It’s asking a lot, for a skeptic to put his faith in something. He swallows and nods, flashing her a brief, albeit sad, smile.

Alex falls asleep with his fingers in her hair.


	17. "Watch your step."

They throw accusations back and forth, serving harsh words like a ball over a net. Strand’s know-it-all smile twists into something dangerous and sharp. Alex’s hackles rise after each volley. He may be an author, a sometimes professor, a man with two doctorates. But Alex is a reporter. She digs up dirt on a daily basis. She spikes it back to him, her words cutting just as quick, just as deep.

He stops when Alex says something particularly cruel. He swallows back hurt. As usual, when confronted with something unpleasant, Strand takes the keys to the rental car—their shared rental car—and leaves. He doesn’t say where he plans to go.

Alex doesn’t ask.

Hours later, given the chance to cool down after thier argument, Alex regrets not asking. The town they stopped in for the night is small, rural. The kind where everything shuts down after nine o’clock.Their hotel is the only one around for miles. Where could he have gone?

Alex calls his cellphone. It goes straight to voicemail.

Is he ignoring her on purpose?

Does he even plan to come back?

Could she have hurt him so badly he abandoned her?

Could something have happened? Could he be lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding out after some sort of accident?

Alex’s heart jumps into her throat at the image.

She shakes her head before she can get worked up. While Alex doesn’t stay angry long, Strand’s anger lies close to the surface, just beneath his skin. It took her much too long to put it together, but the stories his colleagues have spread are not rumors. Their claims that he’s ‘too passionate’ when it comes to his dismissal of the paranormal, the assault on the psychic in his past. Behind the wry smile, Richard Strand is an emotional man.

It’s much more likely Strand took off to do his own cooling down. Away from Alex’s prying questions and watchful eyes.

Her phone buzzes against the dresser. Alex snatches it up only to frown at the awaiting text.

_Frgot rooom key. lET mein._

Strand doesn’t make spelling and grammar mistakes. He doesn’t even abbreviate. Alex checks the peep hole in the door. No one stands on the other side. She opens the door. She checks to the right and to the left, peering down the empty hallway.

_Where are you?_

Alex wrings her hands as minutes tick by with no answer. Should she go out and look for him?

Her phone buzzes.

_Otside. coudlnt fine theelevator._

Alex shoves her feet into her boots and shrugs a hoodie on over her pajama top. She burst through the door only to stop. She pats the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie. No key card.

She slams the palm of her hand between the door and the jam, just before it can close entirely, locking her out. She swipes the key card from the dresser and books it down the hallway to the elevator. She taps her foot, her eyes darting to the phone in her hand, as she waits for car to reach her floor. Once the door slides open, Alex dashes inside. She presses the button for the lobby and waits.

The elevator inches its way down. The light above Alex buzzes like an angry hornet. The scuffed gold metal walls distorts her reflection. Alex looks at her phone. No new messages.

An eternity later, the elevator dings. The door slides open, slower than it has any right to. Alex jumps out as soon as she can slip through.

No one. Not one person loiters in the lobby. Least of all the familiar form of Strand.

“Ma’am?” The concerned, wrinkled face of the receptionist peers over the counter.

“Hi,” Alex says, “I’m looking for my friend. He’s tall, like, really tall. With glasses and a kind of scruffy beard. He locked himself out of our room. Have you seen him?”

The woman frowns. “You mean the drunk?”

“The what?”

“He was either drunk or high. Kept muttering about losing the elevator. I told him he’d have to leave or I’d call the cops.”

“Did you see where he went?”

The woman shrugs. “Wandered outside.”

Alex waits for more, but the woman turns to the ancient computer in front of her and slides a stack of digital cards across the screen.

“Thanks for your help,” Alex says. She rolls her eyes and slaps the countertop with her hands, before pulling away entirely.

Alex shivers as the early April chill seeps through the thin cotton of her hoodie. She scans the parking lot, dotted with cars, until she spots the rental. Strand sits on the trunk of the car, a brown-bagged bottle clutched in one hand.

“Alex!” He smiles wide and hops down from his perch, only to misjudge the distance between his long legs and the ground. He crumples into a heap on the pavement with a yelp.

”Oh my God,” Alex says. “You are drunk.”

“I forgot my key.” His words teeter just on the edge of slurring.

“I’ve got mine. Come on, let’s get you back to the room.” 

He’s heavy. And his limbs refuse to cooperate. She wraps an arm around his waist and wrenches him to his feet. He stumbles, but by some miracle he would undoubtedly disprove later, Alex manages to keep them both upright.

“Did you find the elevator?”

“Yes.” Alex grunts, shifting his weight against her as she steers him back into the hotel. “Right where it always was.”

He shakes his head, dark hair falling into his face.

“Watch your step,” Alex says, directing him through the automatic doors of the hotel lobby.

The receptionist’s judgement hangs heavily over them, like a storm cloud ready to rain down righteous disapproval. Her watery eyes track Alex and Strand across the lobby.

Alex calls the elevator. The door slides open, the car already on the lobby floor. Alex leans Strand against the corner, grateful for the chance to rest. She presses the button for their floor. Strand closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the cool metal of the elevator wall.

“You okay?” she asks.

He swallows, eyes still shut. “Dizzy.”

“You’re not going to throw up, are you? Can you wait until we get back to our room, at least?”

He nods gingerly against the metal. “Motion sick.”

Alex snorts.

“‘M not drunk,” he protests. The elevator jerks to a stop. Strand stumbles, catching himself before he can fall backward into Alex.

“You’re pretty drunk. Duck.”

He crouches, his unruly hair brushing the top of the elevator door. It puts him off balance and he sways dangerously to the side. Alex rushes to prop him up, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

She wrangles the key from her pocket, crossing her fingers her phone hasn’t demagnetised it. The light turns green on the second attempt.

Initially, Alex claimed the bed closest to the door. It’s closest to the bathroom, allowing Alex to get up and do her morning routine without having to pick her way around the bed. Alex deposits Strand on that bed, instead. A straight shot just in case he vomits.

Strand drops down onto the mattress, long limbs loose and heavy. “Are you...still angry with me?”

Alex shakes her head. “No. I should be, but I’m not. Not really.”

He frowns, staring down at his shoes. He bends to untie them, folded over himself in an uncoordinated mess. The knot proves too difficult for his fingers to navigate, however. He makes a frustrated noise and lies back, feet still on the floor.

“Let me help.” Alex kneels down and, one by one, removes his sneakers. She lines them up by his bag. “You should sleep.”

He rolls over, pulling socked feet up almost to his chest. He grabs one of the pillows from above his head and drags it down. He holds it to him, burying his face in the rough cotton.

Before Alex crawls into her own bed, she places the empty ice bucket within Strand’s easy reach. 

“I’m sorry,” he says into the darkness. Is he apologizing for the things he said during their fight? Or for running out on her? Or is it something else entirely? “I’m sorry, Alex.”

“I know, Richard. Get some sleep.”

She waits until his breath slows into soft, drunken snores.

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers. “For everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This narrative will be continued in the next chapter.
> 
> *Edited 1.8.18


	18. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: In the beginning, there is some description of hangover vomiting. 
> 
> This is a continuation of the previous chapter. If you have not read it, please go back before reading this one. It will make a lot more sense if you do.

For once, Alex doesn’t wake up with a shuddering gasp. There is no nightmare chasing her toward wakefulness with a scream in her throat. Even the shadows look peaceful in the early morning light.

What wakes her is the sound of someone being violently ill.

Alex rolls out of bed and pads over to the sink. Unwrapping one of the paper cups, Alex fills it with water from the faucet. Out of her bag she procures two painkillers.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open, but still Alex knocks. 

Strand coughs and she hears him spit before rasping out a weak, “Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

He kicks the door the rest of the way open from his spot on the floor, back resting against the far wall. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed against the light.

Alex wrinkles her nose against the vomit smell, feeling saliva collect in the back of her throat. She clamps down the urge to sympathy puke and holds out the water and pills. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.”

He groans as he squints up at her, but he takes the pills and downs them. He uses the rest of the water to wash the taste out of his mouth, swishing it around and then spitting it into the toilet. He flushes it and sits back, looking pale. 

“Do you want anything? More water? Food? They’re serving breakfast downstairs. I could probably get you some toast, or eggs if you feel up to it--”

Strand holds his hand up, looking green around the edges. “Please, I’m going to--”

He throws up the rest of the words, along with the little water he had taken in. The pills too, probably, but Alex doesn’t look too closely.

He doesn’t have hair to pull back, so Alex settles for kneeling down to rub his back through his flannel shirt. He curses when he’s finished. 

Alex flushes for him, letting him lean back against the wall. “What, no ‘I’m never drinking again’ speech?”

Strand exhales a short laugh. “I’m not going to lie. To either of us.”

“So this isn’t your first time getting totally shit-faced?”

He grimaces at her wording. “No,” he says on a sigh. 

“Does this happen often?”

“I’m not an alcoholic.” He tries to glare up at her, but winces at the effort. He turns his eyes away and Alex knows there is more so she waits. “Perhaps,” he sighs, “perhaps I was looking for an excuse.”

“An excuse? To drink?”

He still doesn’t look at her. He pulls his long legs into his chest, arms wrapped around them. “Yesterday was our anniversary.”

“I don’t understand.”

He slams one of his palms into the wall beside him, upsetting the cheap framed photograph hanging above him. Alex flinches at the sudden violence, but the movement seems to take all the energy out of him and he slumps further over his folded knees. “I loved her.”

“It must be hard,” Alex says, trying to be soothing. “If she’s alive--”

“I loved her and she _left_ me. If she’s alive--if she’s alive, how can I forgive her for leaving? For allowing me to believe she was dead for eighteen years? For taking my daughter away from me?”

Strand takes a breath, his body trembling.

Alex shifts closer, tries to put her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs her away. “I’ve been on edge,” he continues. “Arguing with you--it was stupid, childish. But it let me feel something other than _this_.”

She doesn’t ask him to elaborate. She can’t imagine everything he must be feeling, all the old wounds that have been opened because of her investigation into his life. She’s hit with the same guilt that had kept her up the previous night, sitting heavy on her chest like a pile of rocks.

“I’m _tired_ ,” he says and rests his forehead on his knees.

When she puts her hand on his head, carding her fingers through his dark hair, he lets her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, ouch, the angst was strong in this chapter.


	19. "Can I hold your hand?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final part of a three part narrative. If you haven't read the two previous chapters, start there.

Strand doesn’t get up for the rest of the day.

After Alex helps him into bed, she takes a shower and gets ready for the day as quietly as possible. She even leaves most of the lights off, hoping to let Strand sleep off the rest of his hangover. She goes downstairs to eat breakfast alone. Before she leaves the hotel, she writes him a note explaining where she’s gone with instructions to call her if he needs anything.

She meets with several people throughout the day, interviewing them for the podcast. A few, hoping to meet the infamous Dr. Strand, express their disappointment at his absence. Alex makes up a story about Strand not feeling well. It’s only half a lie. 

She gets a good deal of audio recorded, but still, she misses Strand’s participation. His insights, his questions, even his snark are all things she believes make her podcast stronger. She’s been doing well on her own this season, but Alex can’t say she wasn’t excited when he agreed to come with her for this investigation.

When Alex comes back to their hotel room, after a long, quiet drive, the lights are still out. Strand is still curled up on the bed where she left him, face obscured by the pillow it’s buried in. 

Alex frowns, wondering if he’s left his spot on the bed at all during her absence, whether he’s eaten or even showered. The glass of water and the pill bottle she’d left on his nightstand look untouched.

She pads around the hotel room for an hour or two, but Strand hardly even shifts, let alone shows signs of waking. When her stomach starts to protest, she orders in, giving the delivery driver instructions to text her when they arrive so she can meet them in the lobby. She orders enough for two, but she has a feeling she’ll be eating alone.

She’s right. She eats reclined on her own bed in the dim glow of her laptop screen, her earbuds nestled in her ears. She dozes off to a documentary on Netflix only to jerk awake when she hears Strand get up to drift, ghost-like, into the bathroom.

“Are you okay?” she asks as soon as the door opens again. “Feeling any better?”

He looks at her through exhausted eyes, despite having slept the day away. “Fine.”

Alex frowns. “Are you sure? I ordered food, if you’re hungry. It’s in the mini-fridge.”

Strand blinks, as if her words are difficult to process. He nods, but doesn’t move toward the fridge. Instead, he removes his glasses and settles back onto the bed, curling around one of the pillows and hugging it against him.

She spends the next hour googling the effects of a hangover. She’s had her fair share of them--parties at the PNWS office can get pretty intense--but she’s never seen anything quite this bad. At least he hasn’t thrown up again.

It’s also possible that Strand had simply gotten sick. They _had_ just flown cross-country in an airplane full of people. Alex remembers that the person in the row in front of them had been coughing quite a lot. With the stress of the last few weeks and Strand’s new habit of skipping meals, catching a cold wouldn’t be out of the question.

Alex decides to let him sleep. Whatever it is, he obviously needs his rest. She settles down with another documentary and blames her sleeplessness on her insomnia, not because she’s worried about the man in the other bed.

The next morning, Strand sleeps through breakfast. He sleeps through Alex getting herself ready and doesn’t respond when she asks, voice quiet in the darkened hotel room, if he wants her to put up the Do Not Disturb sign. She hangs it on the handle anyway and lets herself out, resigned to another day of investigating alone.

When she returns, she’s dismayed to find him still in bed. But when she rounds the bed to set down her bag, his eyes are open and staring, unseeing, at the wall.

“Richard?”

A blink is her only response.

Alex pulls out a bottle from her bag. “I brought you a Gatorade. I know it’s not--you need to drink something. It’s pink flavor. Everyone likes pink flavor.”

She holds it out for a long time before he moves, slowly, like his limbs are full of lead. Alex helps him to sit up, cracks the lid off of the bottle, and doesn’t let go of it until his hands are wrapped around the plastic. He drinks without complaint, without even scrunching his nose at the taste. He drinks down the entire bottle and hands it to her, like it was a chore he had to complete before she would leave him alone again.

She does. Alex uses the microwave stacked on top of the mini-fridge to reheat her takeout from the night before. She eats in silence, not bothering to turn on the television since she won’t be able to concentrate on anything that might be playing. Not when there is something inarguably wrong with Strand.

“What can I do?” she asks.

He closes his eyes, curls more tightly around himself. His words are more low grumble than actual speech. “Let me sleep.”

It’s not exactly the response she’s looking for. She feels helpless. She _hates_ feeling like there is nothing she can do. “We’re only here for another day. I can push back the flights, extend our stay at the hotel. We don’t have to go back right away, if you need a break, away from everything. Nic will understand.”

“You can,” he says against the sheets, “you can go. Without me.”

“That’s not happening. I’m not leaving you here to deal with this alone.”

His eyes flutter open. His expression, as much as she can see if it, looks puzzled. “I’m always alone.”

Something in Alex’s chest breaks. The jagged edges of it make it difficult to breathe. “Can I hold your hand?”

“What?” 

Alex is just as surprised as he is by her question. She sits down on his bed, shocking herself even further. “So you know you’re not alone.”

A hand slowly snakes out to lay, palm up on the bed beside her. Alex takes it in both of hers.

His eyes focus on their hands, resting in Alex’s lap, and Alex wonders how much he can see without his glasses.

They stay like that for a long time. Until Alex’s legs start to fall asleep from the awkward angle she’s sitting in. Strand makes an upset noise when she starts to pull away, so she doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Hold on,” she says, slipping out of her shoes. She climbs back onto the bed, lying next to him. “Look at me.”

His blue eyes meet hers. Without his glasses his face looks much different, younger somehow, despite the beard.

Alex pushes his hair back and it’s impossible not to notice how he leans into her touch, so she does it again. “We’ll get through this,” she says.

His breath shudders on the exhale. Alex pulls him closer, so his head is tucked under her chin. As she holds him, he takes several more trembling breaths, harsh against her skin. 

Alex rubs the hand not still holding on tight to his up and down his back as Strand finally allows himself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did ya'll want some hurt/comfort with your angst? I dunno if you call this a happy ending, but hopefully it's a satisfying one.


	20. "You can borrow mine."

They’re sitting outside at a local coffee shop, one of their usual spots, when a boy of about thirteen stops near their table. He’s a gangly kid, with longish hair and thick glasses. He stands there, hugging a book close to his stomach, and stares.

“Excuse me,” Alex says, waving to get his attention. “Are you lost? Do you need help finding your parents?”

Strand turns around and frowns at the boy. 

The kid half turns, pointing at a table where a woman sits. She looks up from the baby in the high chair she’d been struggling to feed and makes a ‘go ahead’ motion with her hands.

“Are--Are you Dr. Strand? From the Strand Institute?”

If anything, Strand’s frown deepens.

Alex smiles, “He is. Are you a fan?”

The kid holds out his book. The cover is strikingly minimalist, with a black background and blocky white lettering. The title reads, _The History of People & Places._ Alex recognizes it as one of the Strand’s books. 

Strand’s frown lets up, but he still looks uncomfortable. He asks, voice quiet in a sea of coffee shop chatter, “Did you like it?”

The boy grins and bounces on the balls of his feet. “I’ve only read this one about a hundred times.”

Alex knows from experience that Strand writes like an academic. Alex won’t admit it to Strand, but even she struggled to read through some of his writing. She’s impressed with the kid standing in front of them, looking at Strand with stars in his eyes.

“Thank you,” says Strand.

When it looks like Strand is struggling for words, Alex lets her journalistic instincts take over. “This one? Have you read any of the others?”

The boy gives her a look that says ‘duh.’ “Yeah, _all_ of them. I got them from the library. This one is my favorite, though. My mom bought me a copy. Could you--could you sign it? Please?”

Strand pats the pockets of his shirt. Had he been wearing his usual suit jacket, perhaps he would have found a pen there. 

Alex leans down and goes through her bag, pulling out a cheap rollerball. She swirls it around on her napkin to make sure it works, before handing it to Strand. “You can borrow mine.”

The boy thrusts the book at Strand, who takes it and turns to the title page. “What’s your name?”

“Charlie!”

Strand closes his eyes, briefly. He signs it, quick and efficient, and hands the book back to the boy.

Charlie hugs it close again, but without the shyness of before. “Thank you, Dr. Strand. I’m gonna go back to my mom now.”

Strand nods. Charlie runs back to the woman with the baby, shouting, “Mom, look! He did it!”

Alex smiles and bumps the back of her wrist against Strand’s shoulder. “It’s like you’re a celebrity.”

Strand takes a sip of his tea, grimacing down at it. It must have gone cold. “He’s a smart kid.”

“I thought so, too. You didn’t seem so sure, at first.”

“It wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve been berated in public by someone who doesn’t agree with my work.”

“Oh, come on, he was a kid.”

He ducks his head, runs his hand through his hair again. “You’d be surprised.”

Before Alex can say anything else, Strand looks at his watch and starts to stand. “We should get going.”

Alex nods and lets him dodge the subject.


	21. "You might like this."

Strand brings two steaming mugs to the table. He places one near Alex, careful not to disturb any of the paperwork spread out over the table.

“What is this?” Alex asks, peering into the mug. The liquid is a very pale green with pink bits floating at the top.

“Tea,” he answers.

Alex makes a face.

“I’m out of coffee. Try it. You might like this.”

He takes a sip out of his own mug, sitting back in his chair to watch her.

Alex picks up the mug, gingerly, as if it will explode if not handled properly. She breathes in the steam, frowning. “It smells weird. What are the specks in it?”

“Plum.” He takes another sip, smile curling around the edges of ceramic. “It’s supposed to be quite good for you, actually.”

She takes a sip.

And promptly spits it back into her mug. “It’s so salty! I knew you were angry about the eavesdropping thing, but I didn’t think you’d try to kill me.”

Strand laughs. “It’s Japanese kelp tea with plum. Pickled plum, that is. I was serious about it being good for you.”

“That is weird, even for your anti-Tazo tea snobbery. Why do you even have that?”

“Ruby bought it as a joke. I quite like it.”

Alex scrunches her nose. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to make a coffee run. Do you want anything they actually might have at Starbucks?”

“One of those cake things. If you don’t mind.” He hands Alex a credit card. “Call it a business expense.” 

“Some of us call it an apology.”

He looks down, pretending to be absorbed in one of the papers in front of him, but not before Alex catches a glimpse of his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kelp tea with Japanese plum is an actual thing that I have tasted. Super salty! I think it's also used in soups. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong!


	22. “It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”

Strand hovers as Alex carries a box of old books into Strand’s office. His hands flex at his sides, as if it’s all he can do to keep himself from taking the box from her. 

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”

Alex rolls her eyes. She’s only told him, repeatedly, that she can handle it herself. “It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”

He says something low, something that sounds suspiciously like, “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

Alex half turns around as she walks, tossing over her shoulder, “What was that?” 

“As I said, these books are very old. Please be careful.”

“I am being--” Her words get cut off as she trips. Strand reaches out to steady her, but not fast enough. She and the box tumble to the floor, scattering books and a cloud of dust.

Alex coughs, waving her hand in front of her face to dissipate some of the dust. “Shit. Sorry.”

Strand shakes his head and kneels down. “Are you hurt?”

“Just some bruising. What did I trip over anyway?”

“Some, ah, notes. For my research.”

“You’re keeping your conspiracy notes on the floor now?”

“They’re not--” Strand looks down and away. “I apologize. I should have cleared the way.”

Alex starts to gather a few of the books. “Let’s just get these to your desk, alright? I hope none of them were damaged.”

They make quick work of picking up the books, checking for bent spines and ripped pages as they go. Both freeze as they reach for the last book, Strands fingers brushing hers, his touch sending a spark of heat through her. She looks up and realizes just how close they are--so close that she can see the flecks of silver in his cool blue eyes.

She isn’t sure who moves first, but suddenly his lips are pressed against hers. His lips are slightly chapped, but warm. She leans into that warmth, cupping his jaw and sighing into the kiss.

“Dr. Strand, what did you want me to do with--oh. _Oh_.”

They break apart as Ruby stands frozen in the doorway. She shakes herself and starts to back out, her fingers reaching for the door handle and missing a few times. “I can see that you’re busy. I’ll just, um, give you your privacy.”

The door closes with a soft click. Alex turns back to Strand, his face burning a bright red. She can’t help but kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever stare at a prompt for what seems like hours with NO CLUE what to do with it, but then, BLAM, inspiration strikes you right in the face? That was this chapter.


	23. "I'll wait."

Alex waits outside of Nic’s office, wishing she could disappear into the floor. The voices behind the closed door are hushed--all she can hear is Nic’s calm tones and Strand’s deep rumble. Her face burns, knowing that they’re speaking about her, that they’re speaking about how badly she must have fucked up this time.

She had gone with her instincts, which had been so far correct. Her gut had told her to turn on the talk-back mic and so she’d done it. She’d recorded a conversation meant to be private, meant to be off the record, not thinking how it might affect her relationships with the people on the other end. She’d only been thinking of her story.

Stupid, stupid Alex.

Now Amalia is angry with her. She’d told Nic that she’d let them use the audio, but only if Strand also agreed. She’d told Alex that she’d collect her things from Alex’s apartment with a coldness that had stung, like a slap to the face.

Stand had looked at her, face a blank mask. He hadn’t looked disappointed or hurt, hadn’t blown up at her like she’d expected. He’d just looked at her, dark circles smudged under cool blue eyes, and had given them permission to use the audio. 

Nic had been so relieved. 

Alex doesn’t know how she feels. Underneath the haze of exhaustion, righteous anger, embarrassment, guilt, and doubt swirl around until she can’t tell one emotion from another.

The door opens and the tall form of Dr. Strand steps out, followed by Nic.

“Alex!” says Nic, looking surprised to see her. 

Strand nods, but his expression is closed. It reminds her of the time he and Tannis Braun had met in the hallway. He’d been civil, yet so distant. She hadn’t thought how much it might hurt to have that kind of distance grow between them. 

They could have been friends, when this was all over. Instead, she’d focused on her job, her story, and had treated him as just another part of it.

Alex smiles, but the attempt is weak at best. “Hey.”

Nic points back into his office. “Did you want to talk?”

Shaking her head, she says, “I, uh, I actually wanted to catch Dr. Strand. Before he goes back to Chicago.”

“Fine,” says Strand.

Nic looks like he doesn’t want to let either of them go, perhaps afraid that Alex will fuck things up even further when he isn’t there to supervise. But he smiles, trying for normality. “I’ll be here if you need anything. Really.”

“Can we go back to my office?” she asks Strand once they are alone in the hallway. “There are some files I wanted to give you. If that’s okay.”

“Fine,” he says again. 

She leads him to her office and offers him a seat, which he declines. “I’ll wait,” he says, looking somewhere above her head.

Alex bends over her desk, sifting through the papers she’d left scattered haphazard across it after meeting with Paul and Terry, after they had insisted on her taking time off. As if she wouldn’t recognize a suspension, wrapped in pretty words and suggestions of white, sandy beaches. 

She’s sorting through the pile when there is movement in the corner of her eye. A pair of legs and a dangling orange extension cord swing not two feet away from her.

She shrieks, dropping the files she’d been holding, and backs away. She stumbles and trips, falling backwards into the wall.

There’s nothing there.

Of course there isn’t.

She laughs, aware that it sounds just on the edge of hysteria, and lets herself slide down the wall to the floor.

Strand is by her side. She hadn’t even been aware of him moving, but here he is, hovering over her. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, heart beating double time in her chest. “Nothing. Nothing. There’s--there isn’t anything there.”

He doesn’t look down at her with condescension, doesn’t tell her that it’s all in her head, that it’s just apophenia at play. He asks, gently, “What did you see?”

She swallows around the fear still stuck in her throat. “A body. Hanging. From the ceiling. Just like Maddie.”

“The housekeeper?”

She can feel tears start to well in her eyes. She rubs at her them, but they overflow, tears spilling out onto her cheeks despite her efforts to swipe them away. She isn’t crying, not really. She feels like a boat set adrift on rocky seas. A boat that has finally, inevitably, sprung a leak.

Strand’s passive mask crumbles at the sight of her tears. “It’s okay. You’re okay. As you said, there isn’t anything there.”

“I’m _not_ okay. I’m _seeing_ things, how is that okay?”

“You’re exhausted. You need to rest.”

“Don’t you think I’ve _tried_? I lie awake and I can’t stop _thinking_. I can’t stop thinking about demons and upside down faces and Coralee and, and _you_ , okay? I can’t turn it off for one second and when I do fall asleep, when I manage to pass out for more than an hour, I’m afraid that I’ll wake up to another recording of me _chanting_ the names of archdemons. I’ve tried for so long that I’m tired of it--I’m tired of being irritable, tired of jumping at shadows. I’m tired of fucking up.”

Strand startles when she falls into him, but he scoops her up in his arms and gathers her close. Her body trembles against his, more from fatigue than anything else. Her tears will probably ruin his shirt, but at this point, Alex finds it hard to care. He’s strong and solid and the feeling of his fingers rubbing circles into her back is so soothing that she just closes her eyes and lets the flood of tears she’d been holding back fall, like a dam breaking under too much pressure.

“You haven’t fucked anything up,” he says after she quiets, the words tickling the hair at the top of her head.

She laughs into his chest. “That’s not true and you know it.”

“You’ve made mistakes, yes. It isn’t too late to make amends.”

Alex squeezes her eyes shut more tightly and whispers, aware that her words are irrational, but needing an answer anyway, “But what if everyone hates me?”

“I was just speaking with Nic. He doesn’t hate you. Your executive producers don’t hate you. They’re worried for you.”

“Amalia left. She won’t answer any of my calls.”

“She’s a smart woman. She’ll answer when she’s ready.”

“And you?” 

He pauses. “I’m angry. You violated my trust. I’m trying to keep you as separate as I can from all of this, to keep you safe.” He sighs. “I’m angry, but I don’t hate you. I don’t even dislike you. You and I, we have a…”

Strand trails off, much as he had during their conversation weeks before, when she’d first found him in his office after he’d disappeared.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?”

She takes a deep breath and pulls a little away, so she can see his face. “I can do this. I have a friend with a cabin. She’s invited me to stay there a few times. I can--I can take a few weeks off, try to get some sleep. The podcast will still be here when I get back. _You’ll_ still be here when I get back, won’t you?”

He brushes away a few stray tears, the pads of his fingers soft against her skin. “I can’t promise where I’ll be, but we’re too involved now to quit. We said at the beginning that we were both interested in the truth. We don’t have it yet, not all of it, and I’m not going to stop until we do.”

“Okay,” she says again.

He helps her to her feet. “Okay,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually tried to do a bit of editing with this chapter and deleted a good bit of _stuff_ that didn't fit. I dunno if I'm exactly happy with the ending, but after staring at for a good, long time, I just said "fuck it" and posted it. Let me know if you're like, "Ew, gross, that ending is super awful and you should be ashamed of yourself" and maybe I'll go back and fix it. Or maybe not. :P


	24. "Just because."

“Come with me,” she says, cell phone balanced between her chin and shoulder as she packs.

Strand sighs. “Why?”

Alex doesn’t want to beg, doesn’t want to tell him how much she dreads spending the next two weeks by herself, doesn’t want to have to explain that she’s worried about him, that she’ll feel much better with him around. “Because.”

“Because why?”

She rolls up another shirt and tosses it into her suitcase. “Just because.”

There is a long pause on the other end. She’s almost afraid that he’s hung up or she’d lost connection, but then he speaks. He sounds about as tired as she feels. “You know I can’t.”

“Maybe I would if you would actually _tell me_.”

“Enjoy your vacation, Alex,” he says. And hangs up.

Alex throws another tee into her suitcase, using more force than necessary. She sinks onto her bed beside it, head in her hands. “Fuck.”

It’s going to be a long two weeks.


	25. "Look both ways."

Alex taps her foot, willing the crosswalk signal to change. “This has got to be the longest light in existence.”

Strand makes an amused sound. “It’s been two minutes.”

“Yeah, well, it feels like the longest _two minutes_ of my life.”

The light changes from the red palm print to the little running man.

“Finally,” Alex says, and steps into the street.

Only to be pulled back, arms around her waist, as a car speeds by.

“Holy shit.” Alex turns around in his arms, stands on tip-toe so her arms can snake around his neck. Pressed so close, she can’t tell if it’s her heart beating violently or his.

“Look both ways,” he says, voice a little gruff, “next time.”

She doesn’t know why--maybe it’s the adrenaline kicking around in her system--but she says the first thing that comes to mind. “Yes, dad.”

When he freezes, Alex pulls back, eyes wide. Color has risen high in his cheeks. If it were any other situation, she might have thought it endearing. But in the weeks that they’ve been together, age, specifically the fact that she’s about the same age as his _daughter_ , has been something they haven’t spoken about.

“Shit. _Shit_. I didn’t mean--I didn’t think--”

“It’s, it’s fine. Don’t apologize.”

The air between them hasn’t felt this award since the first time she’d kissed him, giddy with a break in her investigation. Strand can’t even look at her.

They miss the light. Alex slips her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. When she squeezes, he squeezes back.

She sighs, relieved, and resigns herself to wait for the light to change once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd, we're about a quarter of the way done.


	26. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

Richard Strand sinks down onto the cot he’d set up in his office with a groan. His lower back is a mess of pain from the stress of standing for far too long. Despite taking more than the recommended amount of painkillers, his head aches with every little movement. He closes his eyes and when the afternoon sun streaming in through his window still proves too bright, he drags the quilt up and over his head.

It’s been three days since he last let himself sleep. Still, even as he lays there, he resists the pull.

There is so much left to do.

He feels like he is close to a breakthrough, but every time he reaches for it, it’s somehow much further away. There are more questions than there are answers. There are more players in the game than he ever anticipated. There are more connections to his past, to his father, than he is comfortable with.

How could he have been so blind for all these years?

He doesn’t so much as fall into sleep as it drags him down with a vicious, unforgiving grip.

His headache is no better when he wakes, making it difficult to take in his surroundings. His office is dark, lit only by the light of his desk lamp. There is music playing, or rather, when he listens more closely, someone is humming.

“Did I wake you?”

Strand raises himself up on his elbows. A damp cloth falls from his forehead into his lap. “Alex?”

She smiles and takes the cloth from him, places it in a bowl of water on the floor next to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It seemed to help, a little.”

He shakes his head, regretting the movement instantly. “What?”

Her back of her hand is cool against his skin as she presses it against his forehead. “You’re burning up. How long have you been running a fever?”

He blinks. “A fever?”

Alex pushes him back down onto the cot, hands gentle but insistent. She wrings out the cloth, folds it, and places it back on his head. The chill of the water is a relief against his heated skin.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” she says.

Strand tries to get up again, vision swimming, even as a list of tasks jumps to the forefront of his mind. “I can’t. I have to--”

She doesn’t let him up. For such a small thing, she’s much stronger than he expects. “You can deal with it later. Right now, you need to rest.”

He breathes out, heavily.

Alex takes it as permission to cover him with the quilt. “Sleep now, okay?”

“Could you--?” The rest of the words get lost in the haze of his thoughts.

Alex seems to know what he’d been about to ask. She settles back against his cot and resumes humming.

As he drifts off, the last thing he sees is Alex, light shining around her form. If he were a religious man, he might have described the sight as angelic. But he is not a religious man, and he knows there are no such thing as angels.

He thinks Alex Reagan may come close.


	27. "Try some."

Nic sits back in his chair and sighs. The tiny text of the scanned document in front of him is beginning to blur. There’s a pain building up behind his eyes from staring at it for so long.

“You okay?” Alex asks. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Tired. Nothing new.”

Alex nods. Her vacation had done nothing to improve her quality of her sleep. She looks exhausted, if Nic is honest, but it's a resigned exhaustion. Nic doesn’t think he’s reached that point, quite yet. He wonders if his sleeplessness will start to look like it does on Alex. Or if, with the mystery of Tanis, it will start to look as it does on Dr. Strand--held in check only by sheer power of will and his near-manic search for truth.

As if on cue, Strand looks up from the pile of papers in front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose behind his glasses, then slides the pile a little away. “Tea,” he says, starting to push himself from the table.

Alex hops up from her seat. “Let me get it.”

“That’s not nec--”

“I don’t mind. I was about to make more coffee anyway. Nic, did you want any?”

Nic shakes his head. Caffeine does next to nothing these days, besides make him feel jittery and anxious.

He’s never particularly enjoyed being left alone with Dr. Strand. The man has always been tall and intimidating, his presence always seeming to fill up any room he enters. Now, even with the beard and the flannel, the gleam of obsession in his blue eyes is enough to make Nic feel nervous. He pretends to go back to his reading, eyes catching only on a few words, his mind unable to make connections between any of them.

“Nic,” says Strand, startling him. “Go home.”

“What? And miss out on all of this fun? No way.”

Strand smiles his lopsided I-Know-Everything smile. “You’ve been staring at the same page for the last hour and a half.” 

Nic bites down on an automatic denial. He rubs the back of his head, admitting, “I couldn’t even tell you what this document is about, to be honest.”

Strand makes a breathy sound, not quite a laugh, but close. For a man who always looks at the world with a perpetually amused expression on his face, Nic doesn’t think he’s ever actually heard the man laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Alex asks, as she comes back into the room. She’s balancing two mugs and a tupperware container.

She places Strand’s tea in front of the other man and takes her seat next to him. Nic notices that they’re sitting closer than necessary, what with there only being three of them at the table, but he doesn’t say anything.

Strand shakes his head and takes a sip of his tea. The tea at the station is probably not as fancy as he’s used to, but he doesn’t complain.

“It was nothing, really,” says Nic. “What’s in the box?”

Alex smiles, looking a little embarrassed. “Well, it’s late and I thought we could use a snack. I made cookies, and I thought I’d share.”

Nic has known Alex for years now, so when she opens the lid and offers him a chocolate chip cookie, he politely declines.

Dr. Strand does not have the same years of experience that Nic has. Nic tries to signal to the doctor, keeping his movements as discreet as he can. He shakes his head and mouths the word ‘no,’ but Strand doesn’t see him, too distracted by Alex and her cookies.

“Try some,” Alex says, moving the box closer to Strand.

Strand takes a cookie. Nic holds his breath as he bites into it, then has to cover his mouth in order not to laugh as Strand’s eyes go wide. To his credit, Strand finishes the bite in his mouth, washing it down with his tea.

Nic feels bad, he really does, but he had tried to warn Strand. “Good?” he asks, unable to help his grin.

Strand shoots him a betrayed look, then glances over at Alex’s expectant face. He breaks, just as they all do, in the face of those big, brown eyes. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Alex.”

She beams at him. The way Strand’s eyes soften when he looks at her tells Nic everything he needs to know.

Nic shakes his head, going back to his document to read from the beginning with a smile. 

The most troubling thing is, if even Strand isn’t strong enough to tell Alex about her disastrous attempts at baking, Nic doesn’t think anyone will ever be.

Everyone _knows_ Alex can’t cook.

Everyone, except Alex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help, I made myself laugh over this. Is it even funny? IDEK.
> 
> Poor, poor Alex.


	28. "Drive safely."

“Dr. Strand, what are you doing here?”

He looks terrible. And not just in the way she had described him in her podcast, as he’d asked. He really has let his usual stubble grow out and his hair hasn’t been pushed back into it’s typical style. His suit is rumpled, possibly from the drive to the cabin, but it’s a long way off from the pressed, clean lines she’s used to.

A flicker of some emotion passes through his eyes, but it doesn’t stay there long.

When he doesn’t answer, simply staring at her with his cool blue eyes, she sighs and opens the door wide enough for him to pass through. He shakes his head and backs up, but before he can get too far, Alex grabs the sleeve of his jacket and pulls.

“You came all this way,” she says. “You might as well come in.”

She shows him into the cabin, not letting go of him until he moves to sit on the couch, where she indicates. 

He stares into the fire, lit mostly for the aesthetic rather than light or warmth, his body a long line of tension even against the worn cushions. 

“You’re acting weird,” she says, sitting down beside him, turned a little so they can talk. “I thought your madness was but north-north-west.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but his expression remains mostly blank.

It’s been weeks since she’s seen him last, since she’d violated his privacy and recorded his discussion with Amalia. She’d left the station without having told him what she’d done, had been sat down with Terry and Paul and given the strong suggestion to take time off for her health after Nic had discovered the audio while editing the episode, had left town without saying anything to him about where she was going or why. She has no idea what his reaction must have been--if he had even listened to the podcast--and she’s been too afraid to check the number of voice messages left on her phone.

“You haven’t answered any of my calls,” he says, voice quiet, eyes still on the fire.

She laughs, a little. “Do you blame me? What I did was stupid and unethical and hurtful. I know that now.”

“Implying that you didn’t know before?”

Alex gives him a self-depreciating smile. “I wasn’t really thinking clearly. Before.”

They lapse into silence. Alex fights the urge to bite her lip, nervous about why Strand has come. She hadn’t expected to have this conversation here, in a cabin in the middle of the woods, during her exile. 

“I was worried--”

“I want to apologize--”

They both stop, mid-sentence. 

Strand looks at her and it might be the distance she can feel him trying to maintain that breaks the dam of words she’d been holding back ever since she left Seattle. They come spilling out out of her like a flood. “I’m so sorry. You had your reasons for being secretive. I should have trusted you to tell me on your own time. I was just so _obsessed_ with the story and it _honestly_ felt like the right move--and it might have been, if the information had been vital to the public--which I would have had no way of knowing, I know. I put my own fears first, before the good of the podcast and before you and I’m sorry.”

Her eyes feel hot, but she blinks back the threat of tears. 

The empty expression on Strand’s face finally falls away. “What fears?”

Alex closes her eyes. She doesn’t want him to think less of her, for falling into the same beliefs that he’s spent over twenty years fighting, or for the effect that those beliefs have been having on her.

“I wasn’t sure how much time I had left,” she says. It sounds so stupid out loud. “There was the count down timer. For the Unsound--the one year anniversary of when we heard it.”

Instead of laughing at her, his eyes soften, concerned. “You thought you were going to die?”

“Partly? I guess. I know you said it was just a myth and we’re obviously still here, but as time went on, the possibility just seemed more and more real. I thought I could, I don’t know, finish the story, before then.”

“Nic told me about the insomnia, but he didn’t mention--”

“I never told him. I didn’t tell anybody, not really. I mentioned it in my sleep note--I don’t know if you listened--but that was it. Not even my therapist knows.”

Strand’s hand curls into a fist on the seat next to him, but he doesn’t look angry. “You should have told someone. You didn’t have to struggle with that on your own.”

She shrugs. “Nic is still dealing with Tanis. Anyone else would have laughed.”

“You think I would have?”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t have?”

He can’t argue with her there. He looks away, back at the fire. The flame is weaker than before, having burned through most of the log Alex had set on it earlier.

“Anyway, it didn’t make any sense, what I did. I don’t know why I thought that I could get through the rest of the season if I pushed you away. I wouldn’t blame you now if you decided you didn’t want anything to do with the podcast. Is that why you’re here? To tell me you don’t want to be a part of it anymore?”

Alex hadn’t realized how much the thought scares her until she says it allowed. She’d have to re-brand the podcast if he left, yes. But that’s not what frightens her the most. She’s afraid that she’ll never see Strand again, having alienated him for good.

He shakes his head and Alex remembers how to breathe again. “No, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t until I had knocked on the door that I realized--” He laughs, a soft exhale and a roll of his shoulders, felt more than heard. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Alex smiles, hoping to reassure him. “I’m glad you did.”

He shakes his head again. “I should go. You need your rest.”

“Are you sure? It’ll get dark before you get back into town. There’s a second bedroom. You could stay until morning.”

He doesn’t end up staying. Alex hadn’t expected him to. She follows him out to his car, a mud-splattered rental, and watches him fold himself into the driver’s seat. The window buzzes down and he says, “Goodbye, Alex. Take care.”

She smiles. “Drive safely.”

After he drives away, Alex enters the cabin. Without the threat of the Unsound or the fear of losing Strand and her podcast, she feels better than she has in a long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had the mad but north-north-west thing stuck in my brain for MONTHS.


	29. "Well, what do you want to do?"

Alex peers behind the blinds of her hotel room, but jumps back as thunder cracks overhead. “It’s really coming down out there.”

Strand looks up from his book, adjusting his glasses. “You’re not afraid of a little lightning, are you?”

Alex rolls her eyes. “We don’t get quite as many thunderstorms in Seattle, is all.”

“I’ve a feeling we’re not in Seattle anymore,” Strand says, smirk playing at his lips.

Alex climbs onto her bed, folding her legs underneath her. “I’m onto you,” she says with a grin.

He’s pretending to skim the text in front of him, but Alex can see that his eyes aren’t focused on the page. “On to me how?”

“Don’t play dumb. You pretend you don’t know anything about pop culture, but then you make these references. I know a _Wizard of Oz_ quote when I hear one.”

“Everyone knows _Wizard of Oz_.”

“It’s statements like that that make me think you _like_ to be considered enigmatic.”

She had meant it as a joke, but Strand frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we’ve known each other for over a year now. And I still don’t know much about you.”

“I--” he says and stops, brows furrowing.

“I get it, you’re an intensely private person. But after everything that’s happened, it’d be nice to know what your favorite color is.”

He looks at her, puzzled. It’s the first time she’s ever seen that quick brain of his take longer than a few seconds to figure something out. “You’d like for us to be friends.”

“We were getting there, I think. Before everything started to fall apart.”

Strand scratches his beard at the reminder. He closes his book, not bothering to mark the page, with a sigh. “Well, what do you want to do?”

Alex springs out of her seat. She nearly runs to her bag, unzips one of the front pockets, and pulls out her trusty recorder. When she comes back, she sits down on the edge of the bed, closer to the chair he’s sitting in. 

Cool blue eyes turn wary when they see the recorder. Alex is quick to reassure him. “Don’t worry, it’s just for show.”

Strand blinks, but he waits for her to get settled before asking, “You aren’t going to be recording?”

Shaking her head, Alex says, “This isn’t for the podcast. Just think of it like an interview. Pretend like I’m doing a profile on you.”

“Pretend?” Strand sounds dubious, but he doesn’t reject the idea.

“Yeah,” she says, holding the recorder up to her mouth like a microphone. “Let’s start. Dr. Strand--”

“Richard,” he says. His lips tilt up in a hesitant smile.

Alex grins, not expecting him to get into the spirit of her game so quickly. “Okay. Richard, what _is_ your favorite color?”

She holds the recorder out towards him and waits for an answer. When she doesn’t get one right away, she drops her arm, disappointed. She must have been reading the entire situation wrong. “I’m sorry, it was stupid.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t have a favorite color? Not even a preference?”

For such a simple question, it looks like he has to drag the answer out of himself. “I don’t have a preference because I’m colorblind.”

Alex sits back. “Completely? Shades of grey or--?”

“Monochromatism.”

Alex looks at him, meeting his beautiful blue eyes--eyes that have never seen their true color. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be. I don’t need to see color to appreciate the beauty of the world around me.”

Alex smiles. “Next question?”

Strand nods. 

Alex rattles off question after question. Strand relaxes, his answers coming more and more easily after he realizes she isn’t going to ask him about his past. She keeps the questions light, away from topics she knows from experience make him uncomfortable. She doesn’t ask him about Charlie or Coralee, asks questions about his childhood that have nothing to do with Howard Strand and his quest for the Horn of Tiamat. 

“Did you have a pet?” she asks.

“A cat.”

Somehow that doesn’t surprise Alex. “What was its name?”

Strand smiles slightly. “Atticus.”

“ _To Kill a Mockingbird_?”

“I’ve always loved to read.”

It strikes Alex that he’s volunteering information about himself. It isn’t anything she doesn’t already know--she’s seen him devour more than a few novels and entire academic journals while in his company--but she hopes it means he’s coming to be more at ease with her. 

She thinks it means that they’ll be okay, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have known me since the first Great Black Tapes Hiatus of 2k15 will know that I adore the idea of colorblind Strand and I'm so glad I got to fit it in somewhere other than my fake dating comment fic I wrote.


	30. "One more chapter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a brief mention of self-harm, but no actual self-harm present.
> 
> Also, I promise this isn't just another "I'll watch over you while you sleep" chapters/fics. Stay with me til the end.

“It’s after eight,” Strand says.

Alex looks up from her tablet, blinking at the change of light in his office. “One more chapter.”

He laughs. “Nic was very particular. Put down the tablet, Alex.”

She has the childish urge to stick out her tongue and tell him to make her, but he’s much taller than her and a game of keep-away would not end in her favor. She sighs. “What am I supposed to do if I can’t use any electronics?”

“You could try to sleep.”

“But I’m doing better. I’m getting around five hours now. That’s not too bad.”

“You should be getting seven to nine hours.”

Alex gives him a look. “You’re one to talk. How long has it been since you’ve last stopped to sleep? Or even eat? Over 48 hours?”

Strand shakes his head. “Take the couch.”

Strand has a leather couch in his office, tucked into the corner like a psychiatrist's office. It was clearly picked out more for show than comfort, however. The leather gleams even in the glow of the single lamp on his desk. There are studded gold embellishments decorating the arms. Lying on top of a folded quilt, there is a single pillow. Alex sits down on the stiff cushioning and grimaces. “This is where you’ve been sleeping? For _weeks_?” 

“The floor may be softer,” he admits. He writes down a note and sticks it on the wall. Alex has no idea what system he’s using for his investigation, because it just looks like a mess of papers and maps and string. Strand, however, steps back and takes in the entire wall. He frowns after a moment, unsticks the note, and moves it a quarter of an inch to the left.

Unfolding the quilt, Alex wraps it around herself. She pulls her legs up onto the couch, but she doesn’t lie down, not yet.

When he notices her watching him, he opens his mouth, but then his focus catches on something else and his eyes narrow. “What’s that?”

Alex looks down at where her long skirt has ridden up, revealing her calves. There are long, red scratches down her legs.

Strand strides over to the couch on long legs. “What happened?”

Alex bites her bottom lip. She moves to cover her legs with her skirt, but Strand has already knelt down in front of her. His hands hover over her skin, tracing the air just about each cut with the tips of his fingers. 

There is concern on his face when he looks up. “Are you--did you--?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not on purpose. Every time I go to sleep, I wake up with new cuts.”

“You’re scratching yourself in your sleep?”

“When I was at the cabin, it made sense that I was scratching at mosquito bites. But it’s been a week since I’ve been back. The mosquito bites have all healed, but there are new scratches every morning.”

“It must be psychosomatic.”

Frowning, Alex asks, “So it’s all in my head?”

He covers her with a corner of the quilt, effectively completing her cocoon, and stands up. “I’m afraid so.”

“Great,” she mutters, shifting down until her head is on the pillow. The extra cushion of the blanket underneath her helps, but not much. But she closes her eyes, anyway. “Will you--” her words disappear into a yawn.

“If I see you scratching, I’ll wake you.”

She isn’t expecting to fall asleep, but she breathes in the fabric of the quilt and realizes she’s surrounded with the scent of Strand. It’s warm and comforting in a way makes slipping into sleep easy.

When she wakes, Strand’s office is awash in the gentle light of predawn. She finds him still working, typing quickly on the laptop at his desk. 

Alex shifts on the couch, sitting up, catching Strand's attention. She has to tell herself she is just imaging that the sclera of his eyes is a deep, impenetrable black. He blinks and his eyes are normal, impossible blue on white. 

She stretches, muscles aching. “No scratching?” she asks.

“None. Would you like something to eat? I can have Ruby get something for you, if you’d like.”

She notices that he doesn’t include himself in the offer of breakfast. “Coffee will be fine.”

Alex excuses herself to the restroom while Strand convinces his assistant to pick up coffee on her way into the office. She immediately lifts her skirt to inspect her legs. 

At first she doesn’t see them, but just behind her ankle on her left side, there are three crisscrossing marks. The longer she stares at them, the more they look like they form an ‘S.’

She drops her skirt, letting the fabric swing against her legs. She stares into the mirror, where her own eyes reflect back at her an inky black.

“Apophenia,” she whispers to herself, over and over, a quiet mantra against the fear that threatens to take hold of her and never let go. “Apophenia, apophenia, apophenia…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if any of you caught this in the second sleep note, but, uh, waking up with scratches is often associated with malicious haunting and possession. (Also, alien abductions, but let's not go into how they share a lot of the same phenomena. The psychology of it is really interesting, but--time and place, Bucky, time and place.)


	31. "Don't worry about me."

Nature is duality.

This is something Richard Strand understands.

_To be, or not to be. That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or--_

He shuts the thought down with a growl, causing the woman across the room to look up.

The duality he sees there does not exist. Alex Reagan is one person. She is. She exists.

The other woman does not. Layered overtop the the journalist, his journalist, is the image of another. This woman does not exist. She cannot. 

Yet she does, somewhere. In his past, yes. In his memory. Miles away or perhaps across vast distances, an entire globe away. 

Once dead, but now alive.

_To be, or not to be..._

But she should not be here. 

The image of Coralee smiles at him as Alex frowns. “Are you okay?”

He hears two voices. He steadies himself on the corner of his desk, trying to figure out which is the echo and which is real.

“Don’t,” he says as the women move closer. He closes his eyes, but he can still hear the sound of two sets of footsteps padding across the floor of his office. He can feel the warmth of skin through the sleeve of his shirt as one hand comes to rest on his arm. He can feel the cool press of another hand just above it, the thumb moving back and forth, making his breath catch with the familiarity of the caress. 

“Don’t what?” the voices ask.

He bends, hunching further into himself. “Don’t _worry_ about me. I’m fine.”

“You’re falling apart,” they say. 

“I know.” 

“You need to eat something,” says Alex.

“You need to rest,” says Coralee.

He can’t remember the last time he’d done either of those things.

“You’re wasting away in front of me,” says Alex.

“Just like your father,” Coralee reminds him.

Strand looks up at her, heads taller than Alex, yet somehow the same height. The sight makes him feel dizzy. His knees buckle. Two sets of hands steady him as he sinks to the floor.

“Ruby!” Alex shouts. “Ruby, something is wrong with Dr. Strand!”

He hears Ruby come in, but all he can focus on are the concerned eyes of Alex and the gentle smile of his wife.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” says Ruby.

“Richard, help is on the way, stay with me.”

There are hands on his face, but he can’t tell who they belong to. He’s losing himself the the encroaching darkness.

“...stay with me,” echoes Coralee. She holds out her hand for him, urging him to take hold of it.

_To be, or not to be._

Which does he choose?

The darkness chooses for him.


	32. "It looks good on you."

Strand walks into the PNWS office at a bad time.

Alex doesn’t know who started it, but suddenly there is silly string everywhere. The interns are shrieking with laughter, running through the halls after each other. It’s chaos, but after the stress everyone has been under with the approaching anniversary of hearing the Unsound, Alex and Nic sit back and let them have their fun. 

She and Nic are in her office, re-listening to edits to the next episode, when a sudden hush descends upon the office.

Nic looks up at her, “It’s dead quiet out there.”

“Yeah, I don’t like it either.”

They rush out into the hallway to the see the horrified faces of their interns, all turned toward a tall figure like deer caught in the headlights of an approaching semi. One of them drops the can of silly string she had been holding and it rolls away, the sound of the aerosol can against the tile floor jarring in the silence.

“I’m so sorry,” manages Stephanie, her entire face a bright red. 

“It’s fine,” says Strand. 

Nic steps forward as Alex tries to keep a straight face. “Come on, why don’t we clean up while Alex takes care of the good doctor.”

Nic winks back at Alex as he herds grateful interns away.

Strand looks at her from under a bright green mess of string, hanging from his hair and onto his glasses. He’s _covered_ in silly string.

Alex snickers. “It looks good on you.”

“Right,” he says with a long-suffering expression planted firmly onto his features.

“I’m serious! It’s a good look. It makes you seem a little more approachable.”

He frowns as he follows her back to her office. “I am approachable.”

“Of course you are.” She doesn’t tell him that even with his wry smile and handsome face, he stands like a severe giant in his suits and ties. She doesn’t mention that his current look, aptly referred to as Unabomber Couture around the office, is not much better. “You have pink in your beard.”

He stops in the middle of the office, holding his arms a little bit away from his body as if he’s covered in something toxic. Strings hang off of him and waft a little in the draft from the A/C. Alex can’t help it. She laughs. “You looks like the swamp creature.”

“There’s no such thing,” he says. Alex can tell that he’s about to launch into a lecture, but his mouth closes with a nearly audible clack of teeth once she rises onto her tiptoes just in front of him, using his shoulder for balance. “What are you doing?”

His eyes follow the movement of her other hand as she reaches up and picks a piece of silly string out of his hair. “You were saying?”

Strand surprises her, simply saying, “It’s not important.”

He lets her continue to pick silly string off of him, letting it pile up on a corner of her desk to be thrown out later.

“I’m sorry my interns ambushed you,” she says. She pulls the last bit of string from his shirt. Before she can catch herself, she smooths out the wrinkles from the fabric, hands freezing on his chest once she realizes what she’s doing. Neither pull away.

“It was good to see them having fun,” he says. His eyes flicker down to catch on her lips.

Alex feels a thrill of something pleasant go through her, wondering if he’s actually about to kiss her, when the door to her office swings open. She sees the flash of an LED go off before Strand can step away from her.

Nic looks up from the photo he’d taken on his phone, a grin spreading across his face. “The interns begged me to try to get a pic of Strand covered in silly string for Twitter, but this might just be a thousand times better.”

Alex glares at him. “Nicodemus Silver, if you post that picture--”

“Not even on the refrigerator in the break room?”

“Nic.”

At her warning tone, Nic relents. “Relax, I wouldn’t do that.”

Holding out her hand, Alex says, “Give me your phone.”

“What? No!”

She turns back to Strand, “Excuse me, I have to go beat up my producer.”

Strand nods. “Of course.”

Nic’s grin drops into a frown. As he turns to run, Alex at his heels, he shouts, “Don’t worry, Dr. Strand, I’ll send you a copy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this.


	33. "Close your eyes and hold out your hands."

He swims.

The water is cool against his skin as he moves through it, each stroke pulling him further and faster until all thoughts disappear. His focus narrows down to the kick of his long legs, the parting of the water before him, the rhythmic turning of his head for air. 

He follows the last stroke of his arm just before he hits the wall, tucks his head and tumbles, planting his feet against the wall and pushing off. He rights himself and continues to swim.

He doesn’t count laps. He doesn’t keep time. He just swims. He swims until his muscles ache and his heart pounds in his chest, swims until his lungs protest, swims until he can’t move.

And then he floats.

He closes his eyes against the lights hanging from the rafters of the indoor pool. He listens to the lick of water as it settles around him, clinging to him like a lover. And like the afterglow of a particularly good round of sex, everything is quiet.

The quiet doesn’t last long.

It never does.

This time, however, before his thoughts can come rushing back into his head, bringing back the stress of the terrifying reality he’s come to find himself in, he hears the double-doors open and the padding of tennis shoes against the tiled floor.

The intruder stops at the edge of the pool, but Strand doesn’t look up. He continues floating with the vain hope that he can return to the perfect blankness of the mind that he’d worked so hard to achieve. But like coming out of a restless sleep, the more he grasps for it, the more it evades him.

“Dr. Strand?”

Alex.

Of course.

He rights himself in the water with a sigh and swims over to her, fingers catching the ledge to hold himself in place. “Yes?”

Her eyes close at his impatient tone, mistaking his frustration for anger. She pushes on. “Ruby told me I could find you here.”

“And you couldn’t wait until our meeting? I’m a very busy man, Miss Reagan. I’m afraid I can’t simply drop what I’m doing because you--”

“We were supposed to meet over an hour ago.”

His eyes scan the wall for a clock, noting that he’d completely lost track of time. He means to apologize, but all the comes out of his mouth is a flat, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Strand dips himself fully under the water one last time before hoisting himself up and out of the pool. Water drips freely from the ends of his hair and his swim trunks and Alex moves away, careful not to get her shoes wet in the growing puddle. Droplets bead on his skin, reminding him of his state of undress in front of the journalist.

He notes with a thrill of pleasure that her gaze is caught on the expanse of skin on display, skimming over parts of himself normally kept hidden under slacks and long shirts. Her eyes roam from his bare legs, to his stomach and torso, down his shoulders and arms, and finally up to his face. Even without his glasses, he can see the pretty flush that blooms across her cheekbones and the tips of her ears.

Alex follows him as he makes his way to the bench where he’d left his towel. She stands to the side as he dries himself, looking everywhere but at him. He sits, the towel wrapped around his shoulders. Pushing damp hair out of his eyes, he motions for her to take a seat next to him.

They stare out at the still water of the pool. Alex seems to be lost in her own thoughts. Strand is loathe to interrupt her, not when the quiet can almost be considered peaceful. Not when she’s undoubtedly here to lead him out of this liminal place, back into a world he doesn’t understand anymore.

She jumps up a little, like she’s just remembered where she is and with who. She smiles up at him and his breath catches, just as it always does when faced with that thousand-watt smile. “I brought you something,” she says.

“What is it?”

She plays with the zipper on her messenger bag where it rests on her lap. It’s become such an ever-present part of her that Strand hadn’t noticed it until now. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

He forgets, sometimes, how young she is.

He’s baffled, sometimes, at how casual she is with him.

He’s delighted, sometimes, that she can catch him off guard.

Her words startle a laugh out of him, a breathy chuckle that only she manages to force out of him these days. “What?”

“Just do it.” She has the audacity to pout at him, poking out her bottom lip and looking up at him through a thick fan of eyelashes.

He does so, but more to burn the image more firmly into his memory than because she’d asked.

Strand hears the zipper being pulled on her bag, hears her rummage through the contents. Something is placed in his hand, light and smooth against pruned fingers. “Can I open my eyes now?”

“Go ahead.”

It’s a protein bar, one of the ones he’s often seen her pull out of her desk on days when there is no time to stop for lunch. 

“It’s cookies and cream flavor,” Alex says unnecessarily. “Not exactly healthy, but I had a feeling you hadn’t eaten yet.” 

He hasn’t. He tears into the wrapper and breaks off a piece of the bar, offering her the rest. She shakes her head.

“Eat. Take your time getting dressed. I’ll meet you back at the Institute, okay?”

She slings the strap of her back over her head and stands. Mouth full, Strand can only nod. He watches her go, silence descending once more upon his sanctuary. 

Like a spell broken, the quiet that settles over him begins to feel heavy and oppressive. He doesn’t waste any time getting back to the Institute. There is work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is my native Floridian showing?


	34. "That's okay, I bought two."

“Sorry, folks,” the weatherman says, “Looks like the rain is going to last well into the night. Better pull out those rain boots--we’re looking at up to two inches of rainfall.”

Strand turns away from the window in his hotel room, letting the curtains fall closed on the downpour of rain just beyond. The heavy fabric muffles the sound of the storm, but not by much. 

Strand mutes the television just as the news anchor segues into an update on sports and tosses the remote onto his bed. He checks his watch and resists the urge to pace the length of the room. He picks up the remote and starts to idly flick through the channels, watching two or three seconds of each silent program before moving on to another.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Ah, Alex,” he says, sweeping the door back to allow her to enter.

She smiles, looking a little harried. She sets her messenger bag, umbrella, and a plastic shopping bag down by the door before turning to him.

And enveloping him in a hug.

“I missed you,” she says into his shirt.

Not having expected the embrace, it takes him a moment to remember what to do with his arms. He tucks her close, holding on perhaps a little more tight than he needs to.

Alex doesn’t complain.

“It’s only been a few weeks,” Strand murmurs into her hair.

Laughing, she pulls away. “When you’ve been in the woods without cell service, a few weeks feels a _lot_ longer.”

“Your vacation was--restful?” 

She smiles. He hasn’t seen her smile in weeks, but he imagines it to be brighter than before, less forced. 

“Yeah,” she says, “It was good. I mean, toward the end I was really able to relax and get some sleep.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile. “While your chosen location was perhaps not ideal for someone in your situation--”

Alex rolls her eyes, but her smile ruins the effect.

“--I am glad. That you enjoyed your time away.” 

It sounds inefficient even to his own ears. Strand curses himself for his inability to have a simple conversation with the woman before him. Why is it that words escape him only while in her presence?

The answer is obvious, of course.

It’s the same reason he hadn’t completely cut her off when she had recorded his conversation with the Russian reporter without his consent.

Strand shoves the train of his thoughts down as far as it will go, ripping it from its mental tracks with a satisfying savagery.

It’s a fool’s hope to ever believe she could love him back.

He startles when he feels her hand upon his bicep, her bright eyes looking up at him with concern. “Hey. You ready to go?”

Strand nods. “I am beginning to regret not having packed an umbrella.”

“That’s okay,” she says, picking up the plastic bag she’d come in with and holding it out to him. “I bought two.”

He takes the shopping bag from her and peers inside. A compact black umbrella lies at the bottom.

“That’s why I was late. I forgot to grab mine on the way out of the studio, but then the rain really started coming down, so I had to stop and get one. I picked another one up for you, just in case. It’s a good thing I did.”

“It is. Thank you.”

There’s a long silence, where Strand gets caught in the force of Alex’s grin. He clears his throat. “We should get going.”

On the sidewalk outside, underneath their umbrellas, Alex’s shoulder bumps his side as she talks. She tells him about her vacation and the office antics Nic had gotten her caught up on. Strand finds it hard to concentrate on her words, too focused on the line of contact between them, the shape of her mouth as she speaks, the way her hand gestures excitedly in front of her.

It’s a fool’s hope to ever believe she could love him back.

More fool he for letting himself fall in love, in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're less than a week away from a new episode and I just want them to KISS AND MAKE UP OKAY.


	35. "After you."

Alex has never known Strand to be a man who paces. Strand tends to show his impatience with the crossing of his arms, with checking the expensive watch on his wrist, with the metamorphosis of his wry smile into a stormy frown, matched by the ominous clouds that gather in his eyes. Strand is a man, Alex thinks, who does not appreciate being made to wait.

The space is far too small for him to get much of a stride going. He has to step over her legs as he goes and only to turn around half a second later. Each time he’s faced with the closed door of the elevator, his expression darkens, bit by bit, like a squall rolling in over rocky shores.

“You’re making me dizzy,” Alex says, unable to keep the whine out of her voice. She’s been asking him to stop and sit down for the last forty-five minutes.

“We’ve been here for _hours_.”

“It’s been two. I’m sure somebody will realize the elevator is stuck any time now.”

Strand sighs and continues to pace. She has the the childish urge to lift her leg and trip him up, just for a little variety.

“You never pace. What gives?”

He ignores her.

“Is this part of your new thing? Conspiracy Strand wears jeans and flannel, grows out his beard, and can’t sit still for more than a few minutes at a time?”

His expression turns thunderous, for just a second, before he pushes it back down. 

Alex doesn’t know why she keeps pushing him. Perhaps because he is the only source of entertainment she has with her phone’s battery hovering at a dangerous 10%. Perhaps because she likes to see beyond the smiling front he puts up to catch glimpses of the man she knows lies underneath.

It turns out that the man underneath is _angry_ , with trust issues that would take years of therapy to iron out. 

She could give him the name of her therapist, but she doubts he would take the hint kindly.

“Seriously,” she says. She kicks at his shin as he goes by, not enough to hurt, but to make him give her his attention. “Sit down before I throw up. I’m getting nauseous watching you.”

“Then watch something else.” It’s meant to sound reasonable, like he’s offering her the logical answer to her problem, except _there is nothing else_.

Just Strand. And Alex. Stuck in an elevator cab.

“Right, I’ll just pull up Netflix and get caught up on the next season of How To Get Away With Murder.” She’s going to need as many tips as possible because she might just kill him. Just to get him to stop _moving_.

He does stop, eyeing her with a strange expression on his face. “You’re being sarcastic.”

She smiles up at him, his tall frame haloed by the light in the ceiling. “Glad you caught that.”

His eyes move from her to the corner and then he’s pacing again.

Alex pushes herself up with an aggravated sigh and stands in his way.

“Move,” he says. It’s not quite a growl, but it could be.

“No.” The ‘make me,’ she thinks, is implied.

Strand tries to move around her, but Alex sidesteps to block his path.

The gale force of his glare could level a city. “Stop this. Let me by.”

“No. You stop.” Alex steps up to him, into his space. A miraculous thing happens.

Strand takes a step back.

Alex takes another step forward. Strand’s back hits the wall of the elevator.

Both of his hands clench into fists at his sides. “Alex, stop. I--”

“You what?”

“I do not like being confined.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly like I do either,” Alex says. Why should he get to be the only one to express his frustration? Why can’t he just suck it up and deal with it?

“You misunderstand.”

He makes no attempt to elaborate, but Alex takes a half step back and the caged look in his eyes explains it all. Suddenly, it clicks. “You need a distraction.”

He laughs, “What do you think I’ve been--”

Alex holds up her hand. “One that doesn’t involve you wearing a hole in the floor.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

She kisses him.

She wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down into it, their teeth clicking together before Alex can turn her head and get the angle just right. He makes a startled noise, but then his eyes are closed and he responds, lips moving against hers with a desperation that surprises her.

“We can’t,” he says, but he kisses her again.

“We shouldn’t,” he amends, but then his teeth are scraping against Alex’s jaw. 

“We can,” Alex gasps as he nibbles the shell of her ear.

“Why shouldn’t we?” she asks. Taking his bearded face in her hands, she drags him in for another bruising kiss.

She’d never expected Strand to be much of a kisser, but his tongue slips into her mouth to tangle with her own and she’s lost. Her knees feel weak and the only reason she doesn’t go crashing to the floor is his hold on her. 

The elevator jerks and then Strand really is holding her up against him. 

“Are we moving?” she asks.

His hair is mussed from her hands tangling in it and cheeks are flushed a soft pink. Alex thinks it’s a good look on him. “It appears so.”

“Oh, good.”

At Strand’s look, Alex laughs. “Not that I minded making out with you in an elevator.”

The shade of pink dusting his cheekbones deepens.

“It’s just that there are _way_ more comfortable places. Where I could _distract_ you some more.”

He blinks.

Alex frowns. “Unless you don’t want to?”

“No, I--” 

The elevator door slides open. 

“Are you folks okay?” asks the fireman on the other side.

“We’re fine, thank you.” Alex looks at Strand. “Well?”

Strand seems to understand what she’s asking. His lips twitch upward and he nods. He makes a gesture for her to go before him. “After you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I _know_ this would never happen, but
> 
> shhhhh,
> 
> let a girl have her dreams.


	36. "We'll figure something out."

He’s gone. 

Dr. Strand is gone. 

And it’s all Alex’s fault.

“It’s not your fault,” Nic says.

Alex lifts her head from her desk so Nic can see her frown. 

“Okay, so, it might be a little bit your fault. But, the good doctor sort of has a track record of disappearing when things don’t go his way. He always comes back, doesn’t he?”

Alex lets her head thud back onto her desk. She shakes it back and forth, forehead pressed into the surface. “Read the note, Nic.”

Nic has already read the note. Still, he picks up the envelope, addressed to the PNWS office, care of Alex Reagan. Pulling out the single page, Nic frowns down at the handwritten scrawl. 

The words have already been burned into Alex’s mind. They’ve been playing on loop for the last hour.

_Alex,_

_Due to circumstances you are undoubtedly aware of, I’m afraid I can no longer be a part of your podcast. Thank you for your help in my investigations. I wish you all the best in your future endeavors._

_Dr. Richard Strand_

She hears Nic as he folds the letter and replaces it back into its envelope. Alex reaches out for it, head still face-down on her desk. When she feels its weight against her hand, Alex tucks it close to her. 

“I still don’t see why you think he won’t come back. The last _two_ times were also pretty final, if you ask me.”

“Besides him not answering _any_ of my calls? He doesn’t have anything to apologize for this time. He wasn’t the one out of line. I was. I screwed up so bad he sent a freaking _letter_.”

“So, he’s the only one allowed to mess up?” Nic asks. “How is that fair?”

Alex sighs, letting her shoulders drop. “It’s not.”

“So what are we going to do?”

Alex gives herself one last moment to bask in the mixture of self-pity, guilt, and outrage currently roiling inside of her. Then she lifts her head, straightens her posture, and with a determination she doesn’t quite feel, not yet, she says, “We’ll figure something out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little bit of a rule breaker, since Strand doesn't actually show up in this chapter.


	37. "Can I kiss you?"

“You look…” Alex starts, her eyes caught on the image on the screen. Strand looks younger, of course, the picture having been taken nearly two decades before. But it isn’t that his glasses are laughably out of date or that he’s in a tux that give her pause. No, it’s the smile, the first genuine smile that she’s ever seen from him that makes her hesitate.

“...happy.”

He tears his eyes away from the picture, one of Coralee laughing as she dabs icing onto the nose of his younger self. “I was.”

Her hand reaches out, hovering just above the screen before she realizes what she’s doing and drops it. “I’ve never seen you smile like that.”

He laughs. “It was my wedding day.”

Alex smiles, looking up at him from the computer chair. “I’ve heard most grooms tend to think of their wedding as the end to their freedom.”

“I never wanted freedom. Not with Coralee.”

Something in Alex, something she’s refused to let herself think about or even acknowledge, falls at his words and the strength of the longing she hears in them. She feels it like a void in the pit of her stomach, like an ache just beyond her ribs. Alex closes her eyes against the feeling, but it’s hard to ignore. It’s an emptiness that borders on pain. She suddenly finds it hard to breath.

She hears the shift of fabric as Strand moves, nearly startles when she feels his fingers trace the line of her jaw, her eyes opening wide. He tips her chin up so that she has nowhere else to look, except into his cool blue eyes. He’s so close that she can see the flecks of silver that reflect in the light streaming in from the window.

“Alex,” he says, looking like he’s at war with himself. After a moment, perhaps having come to a decision, he gives her a smile that would look more like a twitch to anyone who didn’t know him. 

“Dr. Strand?”

“Can I kiss you?”

She does startle then, rolling back in the chair until there space between them again. “No.”

Alex watches a flash of some emotion go through his eyes, too quick for her to catch. Then he’s shutting down in front of her, putting even more distance between them. He ducks his head, hair hanging into his face like a shield as he rebuilds walls that Alex has spent so much time and effort trying to demolish.

She reaches for something to stop it, to get him to understand that she isn’t rejecting him, not exactly, but all that comes out is, “What about Coralee?”

His shoulders hitch with the bitter exhale of his laugh. “What _about_ Coralee?”

“You were happy with her. You still love her, I know you do. When we find her, don’t you want to be with her?”

“It would have been far more kind for her to have let me go on believing she was dead,” he says, still not looking at her.

“What? Why?”

He straightens. “Because I lost _everything_ when I lost her.”

“But you can have it back, right? If she’s alive, there’s a chance--”

“If she’s alive, it would mean I never lost anything. She _took_ it from me.”

Alex doesn’t know what to say to that. Strand stands there, his hands clenched into fists and his body taut with tension and she realizes something, something that she should have noticed far sooner. “You’re angry.”

He laughs again, this time louder and longer, but still just as bitter. “I’ve never been more furious in all of my life.”

Despite the seriousness of his tone and their topic of conversation, Alex can’t help the smile that slowly blooms across her face. “You’re the most complicated man I’ve ever met.”

Some of the tension eases out of him, the line of his shoulders dropping into something more relaxed. The fringe of his hair is nearly in his eyes now and Alex has to restrain herself from standing up on the chair to push it out of his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “If I made you uncomfortable. Before.”

“No,” Alex says. “It’s okay.”

“I can assure you that it won’t happen again.” 

“I was kind of hoping it would.”

His eyes jerk back to hers and he blinks down at her. Alex enjoys the rare moment of Strand rendered speechless, all the more that she had been the cause of it.

“Just, another time? When we aren’t looking through pictures of Coralee looking absolutely gorgeous in her wedding dress. I want to be sure that it’s me you want to kiss, that I’m not some stand in for her memory, you know?”

“You aren’t-- You could never be--” He stops himself, takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “That’s generous. Of you.”

Alex smiles at the boyish awkwardness he sometimes displays, wondering if he’s this bad around everyone he meets or if it’s just her. “Do you know what would be really generous? A cup of tea. I could _really_ go for some caffeine right now.”

“Yes. Certainly. I’ll be right back.”

Strands footsteps retreat into the house, the sound echoing in the nearly empty space.

Alex clicks through a few more photos, but as she does so, she starts to feel something new, something a lot like dread. 

There are shadows in the background of a few of the photos. Shadows that could easily be mistaken for trees if the photos hadn’t been taken inside, if it weren’t for the elongated extremities that look a lot like arms and legs. 

“Oh, fuck,” she says, staring at the shadow of a tall man, standing directly behind Strand as he and Coralee smile, oblivious, into the camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm exhausted, so please forgive me if this chapter is a little all over the place. Let me know if there are any glaring errors or weirdness that jumps out at you.


	38. "I like your laugh."

“I think you might be depressed,” Alex says, eyes cast into the steaming cup of tea in her hands.

Strand shuffles a stack of papers and places them back into the box in front of him. He pushes the box away and reaches for another, creating a trail in the thin layer of dust on the floor as he slides it toward him. “I’m fine.”

She had thought that having Strand in Seattle would be good for him. She’d thought the change in scenery, away from the conspiracy-cluttered office in Chicago, might help. She’d thought the challenge of fixing up his father’s house, making it livable, might even be therapeutic. But he’d come into their office and even Nic hadn’t been able to keep the surprise out of his voice at Strand’s appearance.

Strand looks worse than he had before she’d gone on vacation.

His skin is an unhealthy shade of pale. His eyes are sunken into his face and there’s no trace of the spark of intelligence, nor the glimmer of humor, that had brought them to life, the crystalline blue of them now appearing cloudy and unpolished. His hair looks unwashed, so long that it hangs into his eyes and a little past his shoulders. His clothing barely fits him now, the fabric draped over a frame so thin that Alex is sure that if she lifted the cotton tee, she’d be able to see a clear outline of his ribs.

Alex takes a sip of her tea, wonders how much longer the man before her can subsist on tea and research.

“I looked it up. You aren’t sleeping or eating--”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You say that, but from where I’m sitting--” She looks up at him to find him bent over a book opened on his lap. He appears to be reading, but somehow Alex knows that all his attention is on her. “I’m scared for you, okay?”

He curls farther over the book. Alex wonders if he even knows he’s doing it. “Don’t be.”

“You’re my friend. I can’t help it.”

Strand is silent for a long time. Then, finally, he says, “I’ll look into it.”

Alex knows that he doesn’t plan to do any such thing. It would be too much of a distraction from his current quest. Still, she sets her mug down on the box she’d been using as a chair. She gets up and as she passes him, she puts her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. It’s just. I like your laugh. And I haven’t heard it in a long time.”

She squeezes his shoulder a bit, unhappy with just how fragile he feels underneath her palm. “I’m going to make more tea. Do you want anything?”

He shakes his head.

She makes him a cup anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short n' angsty.


	39. "Don't cry."

Alex is crying. 

She’s sitting in a pile on his father’s--his--dusty floor, her hands over her eyes as she lets out huge shuddering breaths. 

Strand stands there, uncomfortable with the knowledge that he has no idea what to do.

“Alex, I--” he swallows and tries again. “Don’t cry. Please.”

Still hunched over on herself, she shakes her head.

“I don’t--I’ll give you a moment. Excuse me.” He turns to leave, berating himself for being unable to comfort her, when he hears something he doesn’t expect.

Laughter. 

“No, wait,” she says in between giggles. 

He faces her, frowning in confusion. “You’re not crying.”

She takes a few seconds to compose herself. Finally, she takes a deep breath and lets it out. Smiling up at him, she offers him the photo album. “I think it was the whiskers that set me off.”

Strand takes the album from her. The photos pasted onto the pages are from one of Charlie’s birthday parties. 

Strand has always been averse to having his picture taken. He prefered to be behind the camera. But Coralee had finally caught him, taking a candid photo of him and Charlie as he bandaged Charlie’s scraped knee on the kitchen counter. 

It had been a fairy tale themed party and Charlie had insisted that all of her guests come in costume.

Including her parents.

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips at the memory. He hadn’t wanted to dress up, but Charlie had looked at him with enormous eyes and he hadn’t been able to refuse when she’d shoved the headband onto his head. “Charlie drew them.”

“That would explain why they’re so crooked.”

He laughs. “I was not the most intimidating of wolves, I admit.”

“Wolf?” Alex says, taking the album back from him. She points down at the headband. “Those are definitely cat ears.”

Strand steps closer, so he can see the album over her shoulder. “Charlie was Little Red Riding Hood. Coralee got to play the part of her grandmother.”

“And you were the Big Bad Wolf?”

“The cat ears were all they could find at the last minute.”

Alex laughs again. “I’m sorry, this is just _really_ cute.”

It takes Strand a moment to put his next thought into words. “Have you spoken to her? Recently?”

Alex looks up at him, but Strand keeps his eyes on the photo album. “Who? Charlie?”

He nods.

“No, not since--you haven’t? At all?”

He sighs. He runs a hand through unwashed hair. “No.”

“What? Why? She’s your daughter.”

“I’d rather not talk about it. Please. I just wanted to know if--” He closes his eyes. 

For once, Alex doesn’t push. “She was good. The last time I talked to her. She seemed like it, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

Alex nods down at the album in her arms. “Do you mind if I keep going through this?”

Thankful for the change of subject, Strand nods. “I’ll leave you to it.”

She looks up at him again. “I was actually hoping that you’d go through it with me? You could tell me about some of the photos.”

Strand means to tell her no, means to remind her of all the work he has yet to do, but he finds himself sitting down beside her. She sets the album down between them, her arm crossing into his space in order to turn the pages. 

He tries very hard not to inhale the sweet strawberry smell of her shampoo as she leans into him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had a dad.


	40. "I made this for you."

“You don’t have to do this,” Strand says.

Alex looks up at him from underneath a wide brimmed hat and smiles. 

He has a flash of memory, just the image of another woman, faceless and framed by sunlight, surrounded by roses, before it disappears. Before it’s Alex once more, squatting in the remnants of what must have been a garden behind his father’s house.

“I told you. I actually like gardening. I don’t mind.” She pulls another weed and tosses it onto a growing pile.

He doesn’t understand why she is here, at his house, spending her day off doing manual labor. He’d tried to talk her out of it, telling her that he could hire a gardener, that she shouldn’t be putting her time and effort into a house he fully intends to sell as soon as the market turns. When that hadn’t worked, he’d offered to pay her for her work, but she’d put her hands on her hips and looked up at him from underneath her hat and he’d showed her into the back yard without further argument.

It had been Alex who had discovered the little garden. He’d given her leave to explore and she had called out, saying, “You never told me there was a garden.”

He’d followed her voice through the house, through an unused hallway, to find her leaning against a door, fingers cupped against the glass of the window inset into it. Hearing his footsteps, she’d looked back at him and stepped out of the way, allowing him to peer out the window himself.

He’d seen the flash of the faceless woman for the first time, then. Bent over nonexistent rose bushes, a watering can in her hand.

Alex had looked at him like she’s doing now, had asked, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he says, echoing the answer that he’d given her days before. 

The condensation dripping from the glass in his hand reminds him why he’d come out of the house in the first place. He holds it out to her. “I made this for you.”

Alex takes the glass in between oversized gardening gloves and peers into it. “Is this lemonade? With mint?”

Strand shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, ducking his head in a nod.

Taking a sip, her eyes go wide. He’s half afraid that she’s about to spit it out when she swallows and says, “Wow, that’s really good. You made this from scratch?”

He blames his light-sensitive eyes for not being able to meet hers, blames the warmth that spreads through him on the sun, as well. “I did, thank you.”

Alex laughs. “No, thank _you_. I’ve never had anyone bring me lemonade before. Maybe I should actually invest in a yard.”

“No need,” Strand says, not understanding the disappointment he feels imagining her in any other garden, receiving glasses of lemonade from hands that are not his own. “You may use this one, for as long as the house is in my possession.”

“I hope you keep it for a long time,” she says. Her smile falls almost immediately. “I mean, I know you want to sell it. And you definitely shouldn’t keep it on my account. But it’s nice, having you close by.”

Strand doesn’t know how to respond to that. The silence that follows grows more and more painful, until Alex takes another sip of her lemonade, the shadow from her hat almost hiding the pink tinge that has spread across her cheeks.

Alex had been right, when she’d said there was a lot to unpack in this house, metaphorically as well as in the physical sense. Surrounded by his father’s artifacts and the ghostly memory of a woman he thinks must have been his mother, Strand wants nothing more than to be rid of it. But the thought of Alex, happily tending to her little plot of garden, with her too-big gloves and her shady hat, gives him pause.

He leaves her to return to her gardening, but he doesn’t stay inside for long. He carries a chair out onto the porch and sets it in the shade, finds a book out of the many he had brought with him from Chicago, and begins to read.


	41. "Go back to sleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues the narrative from the last chapter.

Strand loses himself in a chain of emails forwarded to him by Ruby while Alex showers and changes out of her dirt stained jeans and T-shirt.

He barely looks up when she re-enters the room, hair damp and feet bare. He hears her shuffling around, hears the pull of the ancient wing backed chair as she moves it closer to the dusty bay window, where she can sit in the remnants of the afternoon sun struggling in through the glass. When he does spare her a glance, Alex is curled up with a book in her hands, the same one he had been reading earlier.

“There are other books, if you’d like,” he says. 

She smiles at him. “This one looks interesting. If you don’t mind. I promise not to lose your place. Though, I don’t see a bookmark.”

“I finished it.” It isn’t a lie, not really. Earlier, he had been much too distracted to read, his eyes skimming over words without taking in any of their meaning. But he had read the book, and finished it, long before he’d even met the journalist.

Her smile grows wider. He can’t help but notice the glow her time in the sunshine seems to have given her. Even her eyes seem brighter. “I should have known you’d be a speed reader.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, Alex with her book and Strand at the computer. It’s a long while before Strand registers that her pages have stopped turning, that the only sound in the room is the clack of his keys as he types.

She’s asleep in the chair, head resting against one of the wings, her soft, even breaths a whisper against the faded upholstery. Her fingers still hold her place in the book, even as it threatens to fall to the floor.

Strand makes his way to the bedroom he has claimed as his own. It isn’t the master bedroom--no, he had been uncomfortable with the idea of taking his father’s old room. Instead, he’d set up in a room on the opposite side of the house, on the second floor. 

It’s the one room he had requested Alex not explore. She has been under the impression that Strand had left what she’s been calling his ‘conspiracy wall’ behind, in his office in Chicago. He doesn’t want her to see that all of it--the maps, the documents, the string--had moved with him. Doesn’t want her to know that when she isn’t here, when she doesn’t force him out of doors for this or that reason, related to her podcast or not, he’s holed himself up with his research. It’s the last thing he sees when he does manage to pass out for a few hours sleep. It’s the first thing he sees when his eyes crack open.

Rummaging through a box labeled ‘bedding,’ he manages to find a spare quilt. Without looking at the walls, not able to face the fractured connections he sees there without guilt, without the urge to bury himself back in his research, Strand leaves the room. He closes the door firmly behind him.

The old wood of the stairwell creaks under his weight as he returns to the main floor, back into the room where they’d set up his computer, where Alex still sleeps in the dying light of the late afternoon sun. He unfolds the quilt, intending to cover her with it, when he catches the scent of roses.

He doesn’t know whether the aroma comes from the quilt or from Alex, but it sends him careening into a long-forgotten memory.

_He’s a boy. There are rose bushes, all in full bloom, all around him. The faceless woman from before bends down to pick him up. She’s saying something, the shadow of a mouth moving as she speaks, but Strand can’t hear her. He doesn’t remember her voice._

He comes out of it with a gasp, his fingers losing their grip on the quilt so that it falls unceremoniously onto Alex’s lap. 

She startles awake, looks up at him through bleary eyes. “Richard?”

Ignoring the headache that looms just behind his eyes, he shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m--I’m up,” she says. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Sunlight often causes drowsiness.” The explanation is easy to fall into, the science a comfort he can rely on as he still reels from the fading perfume of roses. “There are a number of theories why this is so. Your body has been working to regulate its temperature, which can cause you to feel lethargic. There are also a number of chemical changes that occur during and after exposure to the sun, often causing fatigue.”

Even half-asleep, she still sees right through him. “Are you okay?”

“Just a headache.”

Again, it isn’t a lie, but it isn’t entirely the truth.

He hates his father for leaving him this house. Hates the house for dredging up memories best left in the past. Hates himself for the fear he’s allowed to creep up his spine and take root.

Alex had asked him what he had seen in the Black Tape marked Cheryl. He had told her that he didn’t remember. 

It hadn’t been a lie.

The thought that it could become one terrifies him.


	42. "Is this okay?"

The first time Strand invades her office, he asks. “Is this okay?”

“Of course,” she says, moving a few of her belongings to make room for him.

He drops a box full of books and documents and flash drives on the corner of her desk. Pulls up a chair and settles in.

He claims that the silence of his father’s house is distracting. Alex doesn’t blame him. She knows how much he hates the house, even if he’s never said so out loud.

For hours, they can work, each on opposite sides of her desk, in quiet harmony. Every so often, he’ll get up to make tea. He always makes a second cup, placing it down near her mouse, within easy reach.

Alex starts to bring in different snacks, subtly encouraging him to eat. She brings fruit, which turns out to be too messy. She brings candy, but this makes him too jittery. His foot tapping against the floor had almost drove her crazy, until she’d dragged him along on an interview to burn off the sugar. The trail mix seems to be a hit, as long as it’s the kind with M&Ms mixed in. While she carefully sorts each handful, eating the almonds, pretzels, and candy separately, Strand takes mindless handfuls and dumps them into his mouth. 

 

Alex doesn’t ask the first time she invades his home.

“Why is there an army of interns in my house?” he asks. He doesn’t look annoyed, as she had thought he’d be.

He stands by her side, hands in his pockets, and watches as a line of interns bring in paper grocery bags and set to work in his kitchen.

“I noticed you haven’t gone shopping yet. We just brought a few staples.”

She had bought staples and then some. The interns had been eager to help, picking out relatively healthy foods with the least amount of effort to make. By the time they are done organizing everything and have put it all away, Strand’s freezer is full and the pantry well-stocked.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Strand asks. His tall frame shifts from one foot to the other. It’s the first time he’s made the offer of food.

Alex smiles. “I’d love to, but I should probably get the interns back to the station.”

“They can stay. If they don’t have anywhere else to be. I’d like to thank them.”

After a quick conference with her interns, Alex returns with the news. “They are requesting pizza.”

Strand nods and pulls out his phone. He gets as far as unlocking it before he looks up at her, a rueful expression on his face. “I’m still unfamiliar with the area. Is there a restaurant that you would suggest?”

Alex pulls out her own phone. “Lupe, catch.”

With only a half-second warning, Lupe pulls the phone out of the air with ease. She looks at Alex, expectant.

“Order what you want. Hand the phone back when it’s time to pay.”

“Got it.”

Alex turns back to Strand as the interns fight over toppings. There is a slight smile on his face.

“They’re really excited to hang out with you, you know,” Alex says. 

Strand gives her a doubtful look. “They’re students. Easily motivated by free food.”

Alex laughs. “That’s true. But they really are just as intrigued by you as I am.”

Strand is spared having to answer. Lupe holds the phone out, looking unsure of who to give it to. Strand takes it, pulls out his wallet, and goes into another room, presumably where it is quieter, to pay.

 

He looks uncertain, the next time he invades her space.

His fingers graze the curve of her cheek and Alex leans into the touch, until his palm cradles the side of her face.

He leans down, the question in his eyes obvious.

Alex’s tongue swipes at lips suddenly gone dry. All she can do is nod, the movement subtle but sure.

The press of his lips against hers is hesitant, nonetheless. “Is this okay?” 

The words are so soft against her skin that Alex shivers. She pulls him back down, thankful he hadn’t gone far, and kisses him until they're both breathless. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 30,000 words and 100 pages, omg.


	43. "I picked these for you."

“We have a new sponsor,” Alex says as she kicks off her shoes.

She follows him into his house, thankful things seem to have gone back to normal between them. Or what passes for normal, anyway.

“Oh?” he asks.

"Yeah. It's a company that sells sunglasses. They sent us a few pairs to keep. So, I picked these for you. Since yours got stolen."

She pulls out a pair of sunglasses from the bag at her hip as she speaks and hands them out to him. Strand takes them, a soft almost-smile on his face.

"Thank you, Alex."

"You’re welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I challenged myself with a drabble. Woo, 100 words exactly~


	44. "I'll drive you to the hospital."

“Can you pick me up?”

Strand holds his phone away from his ear. The name on the display still reads Alex, and the voice on the other end of the line sounds like her, but different--slower, each syllable carefully sounded out.

“Are you drunk?” Strand asks.

“No, I..”

“Alex?”

“Please, can you just come get me? I don’t--Nic is in Chicago and I don’t have anyone else to call.”

Strand is already shoving his wallet into his back pocket. His keys are already in his hand. “Are you in trouble?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I’m not bleeding, I don’t think, but my head really hurts.”

His anxiety ramps up. He barely takes the extra moment to lock the front door before he’s in the car, strapping himself in with his phone balanced against his ear. The car comes to life as he turns the keys in the ignition. “Where are you?”

She gives him an address, which he punches into the car’s GPS.

“Can you hurry? My head _really_ hurts.”

“I’m on my way.”

Strand doesn’t keep track of how many traffic violations he breaks on his way to her. His only concern is getting to Alex as fast as possible.

He can hear her breathing through the receiver, the only hint that she’s still with him.

He doesn’t know what to say to comfort her, so he says nothing.

He keeps imagining every possible scenario, each one more terrible than the last. He clenches his teeth and presses the accelerator dangerously close to the floor.

Once he reaches the address, Strand parks his car and jumps out of it, his eyes scanning the street for any signs of the podcast host. He spots her, finally, sitting with her back against the wall of a bakery. A few people, unconcerned for the woman at their feet, simply step over her legs and continue on.

“Alex,” he says, as soon as he’s close enough for her to hear him.

She blinks at the sound of his voice, eyes looking dazedly around until she recognizes him. “Richard. You came.”

“What happened? Are you all right? Can you stand?” His knees protest as he crouches down beside her. He has to stop himself from running his hands over every inch of her, just to make sure she isn’t wounded.

“Hit my head,” she says. “I’m so dizzy.”

“How? How did you hit your head?”

Alex squints over his shoulder, as if the answer is somewhere just beyond him. “There was a man.”

“What man?”

“I don’t know. He was yelling at me, shaking me. He stole my recorder.”

Strand looks down at the bag still slung over Alex’s shoulder. “Did he take anything else?”

“No. I don’t think so. I blacked out and then he was gone.”

Strand’s heart beats hard in his chest, her answers doing nothing to assuage his anxious thoughts. He’s tried not to be obvious about his regard for her, tried hard to push her away and keep her out of danger. He can’t let the people stalking him know how much Alex means to him, can’t let them know how much the thought of her being hurt puts him in a panic.

He must not have tried hard enough.

He _knows_ he hasn’t tried hard enough.

There’s a target on her back now and he stands there with a paintbrush covered in blood.

He puts the image away, packs it up as tight as he can and crams it as far back in his mind as it’ll go. Alex needs him right now. “You may have a concussion. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

Alex frowns. “Please, I just want to go home.”

Strand shakes his head. “This is serious. You were assaulted. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

He helps her to stand up and half-carries her to the car. He buckles her seatbelt for her and shuts the door with as little force as it takes to latch, not wanting to exacerbate her headache.

At the hospital, Strand checks Alex in, sitting down beside her with the clipboard on his lap. Alex leans against his shoulder and does her best to respond to each question, eyes closed against the bright fluorescents of the hospital’s waiting room.

Strand lets her rest, watching to make sure Alex’s symptoms don’t worsen as they wait.


	45. "What do you want to watch?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues the events of the last. :)

With Nic in Chicago, following a lead for his podcast, and Alex and Amalia not exactly on speaking terms, there isn’t anyone to monitor Alex and her concussion. 

Which is how Strand ends up taking her in, like a lost little bird with an injured wing. And how, like a bird, she ends up sitting on his new, upcycled furniture in a nest of blankets and pillows.

“Here,” he says, holding out a cup of ginger tea. “This should help with the nausea.”

She blinks her eyes open and takes the mug from him in two hands. She brings it close to her face and inhales before taking a tentative sip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Strand doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he sits in the armchair. He tries not to stare at Alex while she drinks her tea, but knows he’s been caught when Alex looks at him over the rim of her mug.

They stare at each other for a long moment, until Strand tears his gaze away.

“You don’t have to sit with me,” Alex says. “I know you have other things you’d rather be doing.”

He doesn’t tell her that this is his penance, that the guilt churning in his gut won’t allow him to let her out of his sight. Not when her injury is his fault, for not being able to push her away and make her stay, when he knows there is danger in associating with him.

This thing between them is like an elastic band. There is only so much distance that can be put between them before the band snaps and brings them back together. He doesn’t have a name for it, but he never expected it to be so strong, so resilient, after only knowing her for a year.

Looking at Alex, even while she wears an oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts they’d picked up from her apartment, with her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, Strand thinks he should have known he’d be damned from the start.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Suit yourself. But you’re going to get bored. I’m not all that interesting.”

He huffs out a laugh, because Alex _would_ think that. Having spent her career interviewing other people, telling their stories, she _would_ think her own life less interesting.

It isn’t true, not in the least, but Strand doesn’t tell her that. He doesn’t know how, not without revealing too much of himself, not without putting her in even more danger. So he stays silent, watching her as she closes her eyes and leans her head back against the sofa.

“I’m so tired,” she says.

Alex is not one to complain--he hadn’t known about her insomnia, about just how bad it had gotten, until she’d informed him of her vacation. Even then she’d shrugged off the part about it being for her health. It clues him in to just how terrible she must be feeling now.

“Sleep. I’ll wake you up in a few hours to check on you.”

She sighs. “I’m too dizzy to sleep. Anyway, aren’t people with concussions not allowed to sleep?”

“You must have tuned out the doctor when she told you that was just a myth.”

“Oh. Right.”

A smile tugs at his lips. With her eyes closed, he lets himself indulge in it.

After a long moment, long enough that Strand had thought Alex was at least attempting to sleep, she asks, “Can we put something on? With the volume low?”

“What do you want to watch?”

Alex shrugs. “I don’t know. What do you have?”

Strand thinks about the box of DVDs he has yet to unpack and shakes his head. “My collection will not be to your liking. Ruby did set up Netflix, if you’d like to chose from there.”

Alex sits up and opens her eyes, squinting against the light from the afternoon sun in the window. “What do you mean, not to my liking?”

By answer, Strand leaves the room, returning with a cardboard box still sealed closed with packing tape. He sets the box on the table in front of Alex and peels back the tape. 

Alex sits at the edge of the sofa so she can peer into the box, her eyes scanning the titles. She picks up a few of the DVDs and examines the cases. “Do you have anything that _isn’t_ horror?”

“I’m afraid not.”

When she looks at him, Strand can feel the weight of her scrutiny, can feel her trying to fit this latest piece of the puzzle that is Richard Strand into her image of him.

“But, _why_?” 

“You once said that ghost stories can be fun.”

“But you don’t believe in ghosts.”

Strand looks away, not wanting to get into a discussion of what he does and does not believe in, not wanting the conversation to veer towards territory better left alone. “No. I do not.”

Alex takes a moment to answer, replacing DVDs into the cardboard box and closing it. She sits back on the sofa, crisscrossing her legs and pulling one of the blankets over her lap. “You’re right. Definitely _not_ to my liking.”

Hearing the humor in her voice, he returns his gaze to hers. He sees her smiling and realizes that Alex is teasing him.

A thrill of _something_ goes up his spine at the realization, but he doesn’t examine it closely.

He leaves her with the remote to the chose something from Netflix. He replaces the box of DVDs with the rest he has yet to unpack, returning with another mug of tea for Alex. He finds her curled up on the sofa, not asleep, but her eyes closed. He doesn’t recognize the program that is playing on the television, the volume not more than a whisper.

Strand places the mug on the table. He’s about to return to his chair, to take up his vigil, when her hand stops him, grasping his wrist and preventing him from going any further. “Alex?”

Eyes still closed, she says, “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

It’s the least he can do for her. With the time and energy she puts into making sure he’s all right, that he’s had more to eat than a protein bar, he owes her much more than what he’s provided.

He tells himself that he’s just reciprocating her generosity, that he’s just doing as she would do for him, that it has nothing to do with the guilt that burns in the pit of his stomach like battery acid. 

If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be in this state, she wouldn’t need someone to take care of her.

Strand gently extricates himself from her grip, squeezing her hand once in his, before he lets go. He folds himself back into his armchair.

If she feels him watching her and not the television, she doesn’t say anything, not even as hours pass and the sun sets, washing the room in darkness.


	46. "You can go first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't happy with this chapter the first time I wrote it and published it. I'm a little happier with the re-write.

Standing in her office, they both look at each other for a long moment.

“So,” she says.

“Alex,” he says.

It’s not often that they trip over each other. She makes a motion with her hands. “You can go first.”

Shaking his head, Strand says, “No, you.”

“Okay, fine.” It’s been weighing on her, Cheryl’s request that Alex ask her brother about the boy and the river. She keeps meaning to ask, but other things have gotten in the way. It’s the reason she asked him to meet her, but still, she hesitates. Steeling herself, she continues. “Tell me about the boy by the river.”

Strand blinks at her. “What boy?”

“I don’t know. Cheryl asked me to ask you. She said you’d know.”

“Cheryl?” His eyes turn inward, as if searching deep inside himself. He shakes his head again, coming up empty. “There was a river by our childhood home. We weren’t allowed to go near it.”

His answer, after the drama Alex had expected to come from her question, seems more than anticlimactic. Alex sighs. “So, no boy? Why would your sister mention it?”

“I don’t know.”

Another dead end, at least until she can call Cheryl again. Alex may be able to get the other woman to explain her cryptic request if she’s persistent. It had worked well enough with her brother.

“Hey,” she says, “can I get you anything? I should have asked earlier if you wanted some tea.”

He doesn’t answer. Alex looks up at him. His eyes are far away again, staring over her head at the wall behind her. She turns around, but there is nothing there, just a blank white wall.

“Richard?” Alex asks, wondering what could make him zone out on her like this.

A full body shudder rocks him. He doesn’t answer.

“Are you okay?” She reaches out to him, lays her hand on his arm. There are tremors running through him. “You’re shaking.”

“There wa-was no boy by the ri-river,” he says, teeth chattering.

“Yeah, you said that.” Alex watches him with a sense that something is wrong. He stands there like a man trapped in the arctic without a jacket, his eyes still staring, unseeing, at the white, white wall. The last she had checked, on her way into the office, it was a comfortable 73 degrees.

“We weren’t _allowed_ —” He stumbles back, as if pushed by an invisible force, blinking the world back into focus. He’s breathing hard, still shivering. He clenches his jaw to get his teeth to stop clicking together.

Alex goes to him, takes his arm and leads him to the worn couch she keeps in her office. “You’re kind of freaking me out here.”

She sits down next to him, touches his hand to get his attention. His skin is icy, like the cold marble of a stone statue. “You’re freezing!”

He nods, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth.

She doesn’t have a blanket, or a jacket big enough to fit him, so she does the next best thing. She wraps her arms around him. Strand startles at her touch—she’s never embraced him before—and shrinks further into himself. She can feel him shudder against her.

“I,” he says. He swallows. “It was me.”

Her hand starts to rub small circles at the small of his back. His eyes close briefly and he leans into the touch. “Who was?”

“The boy.”

“I thought you didn’t remember,” she says.

“I didn’t.”

She moves her hand further up his back and he sighs, shifting to follow the path of her fingers. 

“But you do now?”

Strand nods. He doesn’t protest when she pulls him closer, encouraging him to lean into her. She tightens her grip around him. “Can you tell me about it?”

He’s silent for a long time. Alex can feel his breath on her neck. Finally, he says, “I fell in.”

“That must have been awful.” It’s the only thing she can think to say.

He nods against her, his hair tickling at her skin. “It was traumatic. I must have repressed the me-memory.”

Alex has had a friend get into a car accident, a bad one, leaving her friend’s car totaled and her friend in the hospital for weeks. Alex had asked her what it had been like, her car flipping so many times, and her friend had been unable to answer, saying she couldn’t remember. Alex isn’t a psychiatrist, by any means, but it sounds similar to what must have happened to Strand.

“The river,” Strand says, then stops.

 

Alex runs her fingers through his hair, tells him, “You don’t have to—”

“It was half-frozen,” Strand interrupts, “We weren’t supposed to be near the river, but we went an-anyway.”

“You were a kid.”

“Stupid,” he says, “Irresponsible.”

“You were still a kid.”

“I nearly died. I remember paramedics and—” The shivering had gotten a little better, but now it starts up again, stronger than it’d been before. “I hal-hallucinated.”

“What did you see?” she asks.

“I saw—I saw the Tall Men. More than one. Shadows all around me as the parame-medics tried to save my life, bent over and grinning down at me.”

There is more than doubt in his voice, there is real fear. Alex wonders if this is what he’d felt as a child, convinced that the Tall Men were after his family. “Was this before or after the Cheryl tape?”

Strand shakes his head. “My Father—My Father, he—It wasn’t real. I was deprived of oxygen.”

Alex isn’t so sure, but she knows that’s not what he needs to hear right now. “I’m going to get you some tea. It should warm you up a bit.”

She pulls away from him, but she doesn’t get far. She’s arrested by the sight of him, completely wrecked. He looks up at her with bloodshot eyes, eyes that have seen far too little sleep. “Please, Alex,” he says. She’s never heard that note of pleading before, not even when he’d begged her for her help finding his stalkers. “Please don’t tell anyone. This could ruin me.”

She hates herself for running off, without giving him an answer. He’d crumpled as soon as he’d realized she wasn’t going to promise him anything, hadn’t said a word as she’d left the room. Alex feels hot tears threatening, tears for the frightened little boy Strand must have been, for the lonely, broken man he’d grown up to be, tears for herself and her own selfish need to finish the story. She dashes them away and busies herself with heating up water for Strand’s tea.

She’d always known that there would be a time when she’d have to pick between Strand and her job, between their personal relationship—hovering between friendship and something else—and the podcast. She’d hoped to put it off as long as possible, not ready to face the consequences of either choice. She doesn’t think she can put it off any longer.

When she returns to her office, she isn’t surprised to find Strand gone. He’d taken her recorder, the recorder that had been on her desk, the digital tape rolling, with him.


	47. "Did you get my letter?"

Strand holds up a finger as Alex enters the room. He turns a little away from her in his chair, his phone pressed to his ear.

Alex sits down, making herself comfortable as she often does when she comes to visit.

She does her best not to eavesdrop, but it's difficult. She’s always been too curious for her own good. And, she reasons, if Strand minded her listening in, he would have gone into another room. 

It’s his tone that really pulls her in.

She’s never heard it that soft, with a definite edge of hesitation to it, as if he’s afraid that one wrong word will cause the person on the other line to hang up on him. 

He asks, “Did you get my letter?” 

He smiles and then laughs at the response. “Yes.”

Strand listens again, nodding unconsciously to whatever the other person is saying. “I know.”

His eyes meet Alex’s briefly, the blue of them clearer and brighter than she’s seen in a long time. “I’ll let you get back to work. Alex is here.”

He flinches, sitting back in his chair to cover it. “Alex Reagan. I believe you’ve spoken before.”

Strand switches the phone to his other ear. Running his now-free hand through his hair, he says, “It’s not like that.”

Alex shifts in her chair, uncomfortable. She can’t help but wonder who the other person is and why the conversation seems to have taken a turn for the worse at the mention of her name.

“You know it isn’t--”

He sits up again, a sudden, jerky movement. “No. Charlie, wait.”

Alex’s eyes open wide at the name. Strand’s daughter. With their estrangement, Alex had thought that they didn’t speak. No wonder the conversation was so tense. 

Alex hadn’t been aware of any lingering resentment on Charlie’s part, however, had thought that she and the other woman had parted on relatively good terms after their last Skype call.

She pumps the brakes on that line of thought. She has only heard one side of the conversation, has only seen Strand’s reactions, as subtle as they’ve been. She could be misconstruing the entire situation. And with everything that has happened recently, she doesn’t quite trust herself anymore.

“Be safe,” Strand says. “I lo--”

Strand lowers the phone from his ear, the call ended before he could finish what he was about to say. He sits, frozen, for a full minute, before turning to her, his face a careful reconstruction of how she’d first seen him. Intelligent blue eyes, cool behind his glasses. Wry smile, nearly a smirk, on his lips, as if he knew the answer to a riddle that had stumped the rest of the human race. If it weren’t for the beard and the overgrown hair, Alex would have thought she’d stepped back in time.

“I apologize,” Strand says. “The call was unexpected.”

Alex clears her throat, unsure how to proceed. As his friend, she should ask him about the conversation with Charlie. Hell, even for her podcast, she should ask him about the conversation with Charlie. But, for once, she can’t bring herself to do it.

“It’s fine. You said you found something? In your father’s things?”

Something like surprise goes through his eyes, before that, too, is hidden away. He smiles and pushes himself up from his desk. “I’ll have to show you. It’s through here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't really sure what to do with this prompt, so it sort of ended up as a rule-breaker.


	48. "I'll do it for you."

The plane takes off without an issue. Both she and Strand have been on enough planes that it’s more of a relief to finally be in the air than anything. Passengers shoving carry on luggage into overhead compartments, the flight attendant’s pre-flight instructions, the slow rumble of the plane taxiing, and then finally taking to the sky is familiar. Even the clouds hovering outside her window have lost their novelty. 

_First world problems_ , Alex thinks as she sits back in her chair. 

She looks at her companion, seated beside her, the expression on his face closed off. He’s been withdrawn, ever since they got the news, hours ago. Now, he stares at the seat in front of him, not even a book to keep him occupied.

Pulling one of her headphones away from her ear, she offers it to him without a word. He shakes his head.

It’s going to be a long flight to Chicago.

 

Ruby picks them up from the airport.

She takes one look at her boss and her lips press together. 

Alex has often wondered about Ruby and Strand, whether their working relationship extends into friendship. Regardless, Ruby is invaluable to Strand, proving it to Alex when she doesn’t say anything--no cliche phrases, no heartfelt platitudes--in an attempt to fill the silence. She pats his arm before for she turns to Alex and offers to carry her luggage.

Alex declines and Ruby leads them to the parking lot, to her sensible hybrid hatchback. 

There is a moment’s pause when Strand tries to be a gentleman and offers to sit in the back. Alex rolls her eyes, makes a comment about gigantism, and climbs into the back seat.

After that, the ride to Strand’s apartment is mostly silent. Connected via bluetooth, Ruby’s phone plays something with frantic guitars, pianos, and brass, the volume turned low enough that Alex has to strain her ears to hear over the electric hum of the car. It gives her something to focus on, something other than the way Strand’s shoulders seem to become more and more tense the closer they get to his apartment.

Ruby must sense something, as well, because she glances over at Strand and frowns. Alex and Ruby exchange a worried look in the rearview mirror, but neither make an attempt at conversation. 

Once the car rolls to a stop, Ruby leans over to access the glove compartment. She pulls out a manilla envelope and hands it to Strand. “Those are your new keys. They replaced the locks. I came by afterward and switched out the screws with longer ones, to make it stronger. It’ll take a little more abuse before it gets kicked in again.”

Strand takes the envelope. “Thank you, Ruby.”

“All in a day's work,” Ruby says. “Good luck up there.”

Nodding, Strand gets out of the car. 

Alex follows, throwing a “Good to see you again, Ruby” over her shoulder as she exits the vehicle. She nearly has to run to keep up with Strand’s long strides as he enters the building and leads her to the elevator.

Once they get to his floor, Strand slides his new set of keys out of the folder and turns one in the lock of his front door.

For some reason, Alex doesn’t expect it to open. If she’s completely honest with herself, she had first imagined crime scene tape crisscrossed over the entrance. But there is no tape and the door swings open.

Strand makes a gesture for her to go inside. He locks the door as soon as it is shut behind him. On top of that, he punches a code into a security system on the wall. It beeps as it arms itself. 

“Feel free to explore,” Strand says.

Even in the dim light, it’s difficult for her not to notice how tired he looks. “It’s one thing to want to explore your dad’s old Victorian. It’s another to go snooping around your home.” She pauses, looking away. “Especially after what happened.”

Strand sighs. “We might as well take a look at the damage.”

Strand’s apartment is big, bigger, definitely than the one Alex currently pays too much for. Like his office, his space is tastefully decorated. After seeing what she had done with his father’s house, Alex wonders how much of a hand Ruby had in helping him decorate his apartment--by the artfully arranged pieces and some creative, yet functional decor, Alex thinks the woman must watch a lot of HGTV. 

Or perhaps Strand has better tastes than many of the the bachelors Alex has met in her lifetime. 

It’s probably more a mixture of the two. Strand wouldn’t defer to Ruby’s expertise if he didn’t like her aesthetic choices.

Rather unlike his office, however, are the books. There are books _everywhere_. Alex spots scientific journals and textbooks on several different subjects, but she also sees both hardback and paperback novels. Without taking a close look at any one of them, Alex can make out authors like Stephen King and Dean Koontz, of course, but also Gillian Flynn, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, and Neil Gaiman. 

Strand had explained that the intruders hadn’t had much time in the apartment before they were caught. Not only had the alarm system been tripped, but one of Strand’s neighbors had seen the door broken in and had called the police. 

For some reason, they had completely bypassed the flat screen television in the living room and a number of the more expensive items in the apartment. The police had found the men ransacking the guest bedroom, apparently looking for something. They had not answered any of the police’s questions about why they had chosen the guest room. Alex can only hope that Strand can shed some light on that subject once they deal with the mess.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting, possibly a scene reminiscent of Maddie’s apartment, but it isn’t quite that bad. The mattress has been turned over, bedding strewn across the floor. The pillows have been sliced through with knives and the stuffing pulled out, leaving only deflated, empty shells. Drawers have been pulled out of the dresser with enough force to break them, each of them mercifully empty. The lamp lies on its side on top of the dresser, missing its cover, the light bulb shattered.

The closet seems to have been hit the worst. Clothing, torn off of hangers, spills out into the room. Cardboard boxes, she imagines, had once been stacked in the closet for safekeeping. Now, several of them have been torn into, packing tape curling like gift wrap ribbon where it still sticks to the box.

Strand takes in the entire scene with drained acceptance. He rights the lamp, as much as he can, on his way by. He picks up the discarded bedding, first shaking it out and then wadding it up and tossing it into a corner to be washed. Alex helps him move the mattress back onto the box spring. Strand tells her to leave the dresser as it is.

“Ruby might be able to fix it,” he says.

Running her fingers across the wood, Alex says, “It’s beautiful. It wasn’t antique, was it?”

Strand shakes his head, “Not quite. But it had some...value.”

Alex has a feeling that he means sentimental value over monetary value. She hopes Ruby can put it back together.

Strand seems reluctant to tackle the closet. Once they finish with the rest of the room, he offers her a cup of tea.

They drink it in the living room, the apartment quiet aside from the murmur of clothing against furniture and the tick-tock-tick-tock of an unidentified clock hidden somewhere out of Alex’s field of vision.

She finishes her tea first, but even with his permission given to explore, Alex is unwilling to get up and leave him to tend to his thoughts alone. If it had been her apartment broken into, Alex knows she would be, at the very least, shaken. And while he does his best to seem to seem like he neither wants nor needs comfort, Alex had accompanied him so he wouldn’t have to face the break in by himself. 

“What do you think they were looking for?” Alex asks.

“I don’t know.” Strand doesn’t look at her, his eyes on the cooling tea in his hands. He’s barely even taken a sip.

“Any guesses?”

Strand shakes his head.

Alex sits back on the sofa to wait him out.

Sighing, Strand says. “I have moved quite a number of times over the years.”

“Because of your stalkers?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it was the people stalking you that broke in?”

“Yes.”

“And you have no idea why they zeroed in on your guest bedroom?” 

Strand doesn’t answer.

Alex tries again. “What is in that closet, Richard?”

“Some of Coralee’s belongings.”

This answer surprises Alex into silence.

“I couldn’t keep everything,” Strand continues. “It wouldn’t have been healthy. And I--I needed the closure.”

“But you couldn’t get rid of everything either.”

“I wasn’t my right mind. For a long time, afterward. I thought she might need it, if she came back.”

“You were expecting her to? Even after they blamed her disappearance on the highway serial killer?”

Strand puts his mug of undoubtedly cold tea down on the table beside him. “As I said, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t think she could be dead.”

Alex’s heart goes out the to man he must have been twenty years ago, dealing with the tragedy of his wife’s disappearance and then the loss of his of his remaining family members, first Charlie and then Cheryl.

“Now that we know that she’s alive,” Alex says, shoving down the guilty twinge that goes through her, “do you think that your stalkers are also trying to find her?”

“It seems that way,” Strand says. Then, after a moment, “It is disconcerting that the intruders knew exactly where to find her possessions.”

Alex hadn’t even thought of that. “No wonder you have trust issues.”

Strand laughs, his first in what feels like days.

“Could there be a clue about her whereabouts in that closet?” Alex asks. “Anything you might have missed when you were packing it away?”

“I don’t know,” Strand admits. “It’s possible.”

He wouldn’t have known what to look for, back then, with the wound so fresh in his mind. He’d been grieving. It was possible that Coralee had left some indication of where she’d gone, if she hadn’t been kidnapped.

Alex supposes that would mean that Coralee had planned to leave Strand, that all of the pain and anguish Strand, and even Charlie, had gone through, had been just part of some scheme for Coralee to vanish from their lives.

Could she blame him for not wanting to know for certain?

“I’ll do it for you,” Alex says. “If it’s still too painful, I’ll go through it. I promise not to snoop.”

Strand gives her a look.

“Okay, I’ll only snoop a little.”

He breathes out, not a sigh, but the sound of a man steeling himself against an unpleasant, yet necessary, task. “Let’s get this over with.”

As he stands, Alex asks, “Together?”

A smile doesn’t quite make it to his lips, but Alex can see it, hiding in his eyes. “Unless you have changed your mind?”

“No, no,” Alex says, standing to follow him back into the guest room. “Together, then.”


	49. "Call me when you get home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I really enjoyed writing the last chapter, I decided to do a little bit of a follow-up to it.

It takes them longer than it should to go through the five or so boxes in Strand’s guest room. 

Alex is reminded of documentaries on hoarders--where she sees each item as nothing more than a knick-knack, something she could pass by in a second-hand store without a second thought, Strand sees them as souvenirs of a life long past. She can go through a box, her mind set on finding a clue about Coralee’s disappearance, in no time at all. But Strand takes his time, sometimes stopping altogether to stare down at an object, lost in memory. 

Alex lets him be, even when he pulls a box that Alex has already gone through toward him, to empty it once again. She knows it has less to do with double-checking Alex’s work and more about how long these things must have sat in storage. Strand had probably packed away more than Coralee’s possessions when he’d first filled each box. He’d taped away his grief and loss, had hid it all away, carrying it with him through each move, dedicating a space in his life to it, yet refusing to look at it, to work his way through it.

She wonders whether he is working his way through any of that now, and whether knowing Coralee is alive helps at all. It’s difficult to say, even with the time she’s spent with him and the effort she’s put into studying his expressions, memorizing each nuance so she can better understand him. His eyes are soft behind his glasses, his fingers lingering over details Alex would have missed. 

He doesn’t say much and Alex doesn’t push him to, even when she aches to hear the stories behind some of the things he’s kept of Coralee. She’d promised she’d only snoop a little and she’s wary of him deciding that she’d seen too much of him, or that she’s wormed her way beyond his defenses for too long. Alex has a feeling that it’s been a long time since he’s let anyone see this part of him, this quiet longing. She’s aware that with one wrong word, he could push her away again.

Nic calls and Alex fills him in. Wanting to be there for Strand, she pushes off leaving Chicago for as long as she can. Strand insists on putting her up in a nearby hotel and Alex understands that that room in his apartment has never really been for guests. 

Even with her insomnia, she doesn’t think that she would have been able to sleep, surrounded by the ghost of a woman who had been dead until only recently. 

When she can no longer put off leaving, Strand calls Ruby and asks if she can take Alex to the airport. Alex is disappointed to know that Strand doesn’t intend to see her off, but she understands that he wants more time for himself, to dust himself off and put on his game face. For that, Alex is willing to give him what he needs, hoping that when he returns to Seattle, that things will have shifted back into place.

“Call me when you get home,” Alex says, waiting at his apartment for Ruby.

He blinks down at her, his brows drawn down, puzzled. 

Alex smiles. “I meant your house in Seattle.”

“Oh,” he says. And then, “Why?”

She sometimes forgets the age gap between them. Between her and her friends, it’s common for them to ask each other to call when they get home. Or perhaps, it is just that Strand doesn’t have anyone in his life that would care enough to do so--except for, perhaps, Ruby.

“So I know you that you got in, safe and sound,” she says. “I’ll worry, otherwise.”

“You’ll worry?”

For such a smart man, he can be terribly dense at times, especially when it comes anywhere close to Alex taking an interest in his well-being. “Well, yeah.”

He’s silent for a long time. Then, he says, his words halting and hesitant, “You will let me know, as well? That you have arrived in Seattle without incident?”

Alex hadn’t expected him to reciprocate. She can’t help but wonder if there is more to his attempt at reciprocity than being polite. Would he actually worry about her during her flight? Would he even think about her after she leaves his apartment, leaves his city?

Her surprise must show on her face, because Strand looks away. 

Alex kicks herself, knowing that he’d misunderstood her expression, had automatically assumed it had meant his concern was rejected. “Would you like me to call or text?”

His eyes return to hers, the cool blue guarded. “What?”

Alex smiles, trying to soothe the hurt she still sees there. “When I get to Seattle.”

“I--” he pauses. He breathes out, the tension he’d been holding onto going with it. He smiles. “Call, please.”

As if on cue, Alex’s phone buzzes, letting her know that Ruby is waiting for her. “Looks like my ride is here.”

He walks her to the door.


	50. "I think you're beautiful."

She’s been dreaming lately. When she does find sleep, in fits and starts, she’s been dreaming. Weirdly enough, she dreams of Strand. Or perhaps, given how much she thinks about him each day--about his past, about his involvement in the Black Tapes, about their personal relationship--it isn’t weird at all. Perhaps it is only the content of her dreams that is weird.

They are together, like they were in season one of her podcast, before everything fell apart. Smiling, laughing, having conversations not laden with hidden meaning and the pain of things long buried being dragged into the light. They are having coffee at a local shop, Strand complaining about the Top 40 playlist that only seems to play the same four songs. They are interviewing someone about paranormal events, events that Alex can’t quite seem to grasp, only waking up with the impression of giant six-tailed cats plaguing a small, rural town. They are in Strand’s office at the Institute, crowded around his computer as his fingers fly over the keyboard, telling her again about the importance of the history of people and places.

Alex wakes up, each time feeling like there is something that she has lost, something extremely important. She comforts herself with the thought that, at least, she hadn’t been chanting the names of demons in her sleep. 

It’s obvious to her, when she sees him during the day, why her dreams have turned in the direction they have. He looks haggard, the change of scenery from Chicago to Seattle having done nothing to put more weight on his bones or erase the dark circles smudged under his eyes. Things are still a little tense between them, after Alex aired his secret to her listeners. Her mind must just be recalling simpler, happier times.

She finds him--in real life, not in her dreams--asleep on the couch. They had been working quietly together and it had taken Alex a long time to realize she hasn’t heard any rustling from his corner in a while. She peers over his desk, where she had been researching something for him on the computer, to see his tall frame curled up around the book he’d been referencing. She smiles, wonders what he dreams about, if he dreams at all. Before her insomnia, Alex hadn’t been the type to dream--or she had and never remembered them after waking.

Loathe to wake him, but knowing that even she would be cranky after falling asleep in a position like that, Alex gets up from the desk and makes her way to him. She puts her hand on his shoulder, but doesn’t shake him. “Richard?”

Strand makes a grumbling noise and throws an arm up and over his head, blocking her out. 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

She interprets the noise he makes next as one of dissent. He says, voice a low rumble, “I’m up.”

It’s clear to Alex that he is not, in any shape of the word, ‘up.’ “Like you’ve been for the last 36 hours?”

He grumbles again, but doesn’t use any actual words. She thinks he might actually be falling back into sleep.

“You’ll thank me when you wake up in your bed, without the crick in your neck.” 

He’s too heavy for her to lift on her own, but thankfully Strand takes the hint when she pulls at his arm. He rolls off of the couch in a half-asleep jumble of long limbs, but doesn’t fall, saving her the effort of trying to rescue him from the floor. His eyes aren’t even fully open, his glasses crooked on his face, when he stands up. 

The stairs are a struggle, Strand’s feet barely lifting from step to step, but they manage. Alex has never been in Strand’s bedroom--not the master bedroom down on the first floor, the room he refuses to go into if he doesn’t have to. He’d picked one of the rooms on the second floor and his feet guide them toward it. She hesitates in the doorway, until Strand stumbles in his zombie-like trudge to the bed. Rushing to his side, she props him up and helps him the rest of the way to the bed, larger and more comfortable by far than the cot he’d been using in his office at the Institute. He falls into it after she pulls down the comforter.

Tucking Strand into bed has never been on her list of things she’d ever thought she’d do, but here she is, settling the comforter up and around his shoulders. She reaches for his glasses, to pluck them off his face and set them on a nearby table, when his hand grabs hers.

“You shouldn’t sleep with your glasses on,” she says.

“Won’t be able to see,” he says.

Alex laughs. “You don’t need to see with your eyes closed.”

He doesn’t respond, not even to protest when Alex manages to pull his glasses away. His breathing starts to slow and he relaxes into sleep.

Before she can shut the door on her way out, she hears, the words barely audible, said on the whisper of a breath, “I think you’re beautiful.”

Frozen, Alex convinces herself that he must be thinking of Coralee, but only until he rolls onto his side, sighing, “Alex.”

The door clicks shut behind her. She leans against it, color rising in her cheeks, heat spread across her face all the way into her hairline. A spark of pain blooms on her forearm as she pinches it, hard, just to be certain this isn’t another one of her dreams--one that had just seemed more real than the others. But no, she isn’t dreaming. Not this time, anyway.

She can’t help the smile that settles onto her face, not even as she gathers her things and leaves the house. It stays with her as she starts her car, not moving when she hits traffic on her way back to the studio, not budging when she sits down at her desk, interns handing her problem after problem.

Dr. Strand thinks she’s beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half-way done?!?!


	51. "Are you sure?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supes short missing scene between Alex and Strand during 2x07.

Alex turns off her recorder, knowing that Strand will be more forthright with her if she talks to him off the record. She puts it down on the desk by the box Strand is going through, sliding it into his field of vision. He pauses, staring down at it. He can see that the light is off, that the digital tape is no longer running. Looking up at her, his brow is furrowed, his eyes searching.

“You don’t know which river? Honestly?” She keeps her voice soft and even, trying to minimize the challenge in it. But she had heard the way his voice had changed when she’d first mentioned the boy and the river--she knows that she’s caught him in a lie.

He looks back into the box, avoiding her. It’s just as much admission as she needs, even when he says, “No, I don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Strand still isn’t looking at her. He starts to shuffle through the box again, through the only personal items he had brought with him from Chicago. 

Alex puts her hand on his arm, his skin warm even through the long sleeve of his shirt. It’s enough to turn his attention back to her. “Alright. We’ll come back to it, when I’ve got the specifics.” 

“Thank you,” he says. He looks down at her hand, where it still lingers on his arm, her fingers gripping the fabric as if she’s afraid that he’ll slip away from her. He covers hers with his own and squeezes it, brief, but a reassurance nonetheless. “Should we resume?”

It takes her a second to realize that he’s indicating her recorder. She pulls her hand away and smiles. “Yeah, we probably should.” 

Picking the device up, she looks up at Strand and asks, “Ready?”

He nods.

The light switches on. The metaphorical tape starts rolling. They dive back in.


	52. "Have fun."

“We’re going on a road trip,” Alex says. Her hands grip reflexively on the steering wheel, even as the car sits unmoving in the driveway.

“Who is ‘we’?” Strand asks. His eyes are on the rivulets of rain sliding down the window. A few stubborn droplets are still caught in his hair, even after the ride back to his father’s house from the studio.

“Nic and I. We’re going to try to meet with Thomas Warren--or Nic is hoping to.”

Alex can see the shadow of a smile flicker at his lips when he turns towards her, there and gone again. The teasing amusement in his eyes, however, remains. “Have fun.”

Alex stares at him. “I thought you--of all people--would be interested. Don’t you want to go, too?”

“I considered it, but no.”

Her whole body turns toward him, despite the seat belt still being engaged. “You already knew?” 

Strand nods. “I have been keeping my own tabs on Warren.”

Of course he has. Alex should have expected it. “And you don’t think he’s going to show, either?”

“It will likely be a waste of time.”

“Great.” Alex sits back in her seat with a sigh. “That’s what I thought, too, but Nic is insistent.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the car is the rain, steadily falling all around them.

“If you do see him,” Strand says, then pauses.

“If I see him? What?” A number of suggestions goes through her mind, each one more ridiculous than the last, especially where Strand is concerned. She almost snorts at the image of herself kicking Warren in the shins and running off, leaving the shady businessman with a bruise and the perfect outline of her shoe on his expensive suit pants.

She reflects that she _really_ needs some sleep if her mind has gone passed ‘healthy imagination’ and into ‘cartoon antics’ territory. 

Strand opens the car door and climbs out, into the rain. He leans into the interior and says, “Tell him he owes me a cup of coffee.”

Alex has no idea if he’d meant that parting shot as a joke. With the seriousness of his expression, it could just as easily have been a threat. She sits there for a moment after Strand turns the key in the lock and lets himself into the old house, after the door is closed and lights go on within the house, probably over-analyzing the entire thing.

As she starts the car, Alex wonders if the man _tries_ to be this enigmatic, or if it just comes naturally to him.


	53. "Sit down. I'll get it."

Alex reaches up, stretching all the way to her full height, but the binder is still out of reach. Even on tip-toe, her fingers are barely able to swipe at the edge of the shelf. They come away grimy with dust and she huffs, cursing internally as she wipes them off on her jeans. 

It isn’t so much that she is short, she tells herself. It’s just that the people around her have all turned out to be unreasonably tall. And unreasonably tall people, she has found, don’t understand the struggle of not being able to reach the top shelf. Strand, the most unreasonably tall person she has ever met, certainly has no idea, because she looks everywhere, but there is no sign of a step-stool or even a small ladder.

There is a chair, however, which she drags over to the shelf. It’s wood and looks sturdy enough, so she figures Strand won’t mind if she stands on it. It rocks a little once she steps onto it, but Alex holds onto the shelf to keep herself steady. She’s just reaching for the binder when she hears a voice behind her. 

“Sit down. I’ll get it.” Strand says. 

It startles her. She hadn’t expected him to follow her up. And like a child caught with her hand in the candy bowl after she’d been told it’d spoil her dinner, Alex jumps. The chair rocks back and she loses her balance completely.

Her entire life flashes before her eyes. It’s been a good one, she thinks. Her only regret being that she never--

Strong arms catch her before she can make it to the floor. She looks up to see Strand, who must have anticipated her fall to have crossed the room that fast. His heart hammers in his chest. She can feel it against her body where he holds her, bridal style, mirroring the pounding of her own racing heartbeat. 

“That was close,” she says.

Strand laughs, ducking his head. She loves when he does that, as if he hadn’t been expecting to laugh, as if she’s dragged it out of him somehow, and he’s embarrassed to have done it. It’s oddly charming, a boyish shyness she would have never expected from the intense man she’s come to know. 

She doesn’t know why she does it, perhaps due to her recent brush with near-death, or perhaps just because she can reach, but her hand comes up to cup his face, her thumb sweeping across the swell of his cheekbone. He looks up at her, blinking a little, as if she had surprised him, but he doesn’t set her down, doesn’t tell her to stop, even after a full minute disappears with her still in his arms. He swallows and his eyes slip closed, his shoulders relaxing as much as they can without dropping her, allowing her to explore his features with the pads of her fingers.

She kisses him then, shifting in his arms to meet his lips with her own. He doesn’t let go of her, doesn’t push her away, doesn’t freeze up. Instead, he sighs into the contact. Alex takes it as permission to continue, tilting her head for better access. 

He isn’t demanding like so many of the other men Alex has kissed. He lets her set the pace and parts his lips readily when she darts her tongue out to taste them. Her fingers find their way to the back of his head, carding through the hair there. He makes a pleased sound and breaks the kiss, ducking his head again.

Alex smiles, then tugs at the hair she still has between her fingers, making him look up at her. His lips are swollen, red where she’d nibbled at them. It makes her want to kiss him again, but she realizes that she’s been in his hold for far too long. “You can put me down now,” she says.

“Oh. Right.”

Once she’s back on her own two feet, Alex points up at the binder.

“Yes. Of course,” Strand says, pulling the binder down with ease. He hands it to her, even though he had been the one to request it. He looks a little dazed.

“Are you okay?” Alex asks.

“I--yes. What was that for?”

“The binder?” Alex asks. “I don’t know. You--”

Strand interrupts her. “Not the binder. You kissed me. Why?”

Alex laughs. “Why? Was it that bad?”

“No,” Strand says, looking as if she’d just struck him. “No. It was--why?”

Alex takes a moment to consider her answer. “Because I’ve always wanted to.”

“You’ve always wanted to,” Strand repeats. He doesn’t sound convinced.

“And,” Alex continues, “I nearly died. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I died without kissing you, at least once.”

A smile curls at the corners of his mouth until finally he laughs. “You weren’t going to die.”

Alex grins. “Okay, but I could have ended up very seriously bruised. All for the sake of your binder. What’s in that thing anyway?”

Strand looks down at the binder in her hands. He takes it from her and sets it down on the chair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter--”

Strand interrupts her, leans down and presses his lips to hers in another kiss.

“Oh,” Alex says and kisses him back.

It truly does not matter.


	54. "I made reservations."

“How,” Alex asks, looking up at the building in front of her, “did you manage to pull this off?”

Strand smiles, holding the door open for her to pass through. “I made reservations.”

Alex turns around to look at him open-mouthed, nearly colliding with another couple waiting to be seated.

Riviera’s is notorious for having a reservations list months long. It is, perhaps, the most swanky restaurant that Alex can think of--though, she will admit, her experience with fancier restaurants is pretty slim. Slim to none, in fact. She’s always been more of a pizza and beer kind of woman, more at home in a pair of jeans than the dress she’s currently wearing. Her dates had recognized that in her, had more often met her for drinks over more casual fare. 

It’s quiet, much more quiet than the places she’s used to. There are no televisions along the walls displaying sports games, the bar along one of the walls is decorated with hanging wine glasses rather than regular customers, comfortable on their usual stools. She can hear music, something not-quite classical, but the speakers are too well-hidden for Alex to spot.

Strand holds her chair out for her once they are shown to their table--another huge difference from the restaurants she tends to frequent. Alex sits, arranging the skirt of her dress after it rides up a bit, showing off more of her legs than she’s comfortable with. If Strand notices her fidgeting as he sits down across from her, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes haven’t even drifted down to her chest, where the sweetheart neckline of her dress shows off quite a bit of cleavage. She isn’t sure whether she’s disappointed about that, yet. 

Strand looks to her to get her opinion on the wine, but Alex smiles and defers to him. As far as she’s concerned, all wine tastes the same. Strand seems to know much more about it, discussing several options with the waiter before choosing a bottle of something Alex couldn’t pronounce if her life depended on it. His tongue, however, had rolled each syllable off with ease.

She very decidedly does not think about what his voice does to her, or what it could do, speaking to her in another language.

The waiter comes back not long after he leaves, carrying a bottle of wine. He allows Strand to taste it, waiting for Strand to nod before he fills each glass.

Alex tastes a tentative sip, wishing she could comment about floral notes or hints of cinnamon, but all she tastes is wine. 

“Do you like it?” Strand asks.

Alex can honestly say that she does. It’s dry, but not too sour, not like the wine her mother prefers. She nods. “I didn’t know you knew so much about wine.”

He hesitates, smile falling a little. Alex wonders if he’d been about to mention Coralee, or something else from his past, but had caught himself before he could bring it up. “It’s something that I--I do not indulge in often.”

“This is as much occasion as any,” Alex says.

“It certainly is,” Strand agrees. 

Alex ducks her head, smiling. She busies herself with her menu, her fingers moving along the black leather edges. She flips it over, but there is nothing on the back, just the gilded Riviera’s logo. She’s never been anywhere with fewer than ten choices on the menu, half of them appetizers. She feels suddenly nervous and has to stop her foot from bouncing under the table. “What are you going to get?”

“The grouper,” Strand says, barely having glanced at his menu. “And you?”

Shaking her head, Alex stares down at the menu harder, as if a choice will jump out at her if she only tries hard enough. “I don’t know.”

“Is the restaurant not to your liking?” Strand asks. When she glances up at him, he is looking at her with concern.

“No!” Alex says. Several other diners look over at her and Alex’s face heats up. Quieter, she says, “It’s fine. More than fine. It’s just--”

“Different?” Strand asks. He doesn’t look offended. 

Alex breathes out in relief. “Yeah.”

“We can always go, if you would like. The night is yours, to do with as you wish.”

Alex shakes her head. “You must have gone to a lot of trouble to get a table here. I don’t want to--”

“Alex,” Strand says, gentle, yet firm. “I meant it. We don’t have to stay.”

Biting her lip, Alex takes in the splendor around her. There are more forks than she knows what to do with. The tablecloth is a blinding, bleached white. She takes another drink of her wine, lipstick smudged over the rim of an otherwise crystal clear glass. Strand is looking at her, expectant, but she doesn’t see anything in his eyes that hints at judgement.

“Can we go back to your house?”

Strand smiles. “Of course.”

He apologizes to the waiter, who only raises an astonished eyebrow before returning with the check. Alex reaches for it, but Strand is faster.

“I should pay. It’s my fault we’re leaving.”

Strand only takes out his wallet. He pulls out a few bills and leaves them on the table, helping Alex out of her chair before she can even see the amount he’d so casually parted with, for a bottle of wine they hadn’t even finished.

Back at his house, Alex accepts the beer that Strand holds out to her. It’s the kind she likes, a local craft beer that she can’t believe Strand keeps around for her, but knows from the amber liquid in his glass that he prefers whiskey. He sits down beside her and they settle into a comfortable silence, waiting for their takeout order to arrive.

Alex takes a pull on her beer, then sits back against the couch, her shoulder close enough that, if she were brave enough, she could lean against him. His arm rests along the top of the couch and Alex can only imagine what it would be like to have him hold her close.

She smiles when Strand looks down at her. He clinks his glass against the neck of her bottle, careful not to slosh any of the liquid onto her or her dress. “Happy birthday, Alex.”

Alex can’t think of another way she’d rather spend it.


	55. "I don't mind."

Richard Strand looks at her with a reverence that scares her. It isn’t all the time. No, most of the time Alex wonders if she’s even a blip on his radar. And why should she be? She’s just the reporter who summarily helped turn his world upside down, and not in a good way. But sometimes she catches him, when he doesn’t think that she can see him, his crystalline blue eyes looking at her--really _looking_ at her--with something akin to awe.

Like now, for example. She isn’t doing anything particularly exciting. In fact, she doesn’t think there could be anything more dull than driving down a mostly empty highway, late at night. Perhaps it’s because there isn’t anything else for him to look at, it being too dark to stare out the window, but she knows he keeps his tablet on him, at all times. Maybe he’d forgotten to charge it before they’d left the hotel. Or maybe he just doesn’t feel like reading. Strand doesn’t strike Alex as the kind of man to play Candy Crush to pass the time.

Still, it doesn’t explain the force of his stare. No one has ever looked at her the way he sometimes does, like the way he is doing now. She can see him, out of the corner of her eyes, lit by the soft blue lights of the dashboard and the GPS showing Alex the way to their next destination.

Alex shifts in her seat, trying to hide her discomfort. She can feel his gaze like a tangible thing, like the heat of a physical touch, spreading through her until she feels warm all over. 

“You’re staring,” Alex says, when she can no longer keep her focus on the road.

Strand looks away, facing the windshield and the long stretch of highway disappearing into the darkness before them. “I apologize,” he says, voice husky after so long without speaking.

“I don’t mind,” she says, glancing over at him. He doesn’t look back. “Well, I do mind. It’s kind of hard to drive when I keep thinking there must be something wrong with my face.”

Strand’s attention snaps back to her. With her eyes on the road, she can’t read the minute details of his expression. “No, I--”

When he doesn’t continue, Alex presses, “You?”

“There is nothing wrong with your face.” He says it with finality, as if he’d stated an objective fact rather than an opinion. He sits back in his seat, eyes trained on the landscape, where she suspects that they will remain for the rest of their journey.

As heavy as the weight of his stare had been, somehow, the absence of it feels just as substantial. Maybe even more.

As she drives, the car silent but for the sound of the engine and the tires eating up the earth beneath them, Alex can only wonder what it all means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alex, hunnybunches, you got it bad, boo. but strand, dude, you got it even worse, don't you? lookin at alex like she's a force to be reckoned with but you still wanna smooch her anyway. ah, love. i can just hear the muses singing now. who'd'ya think you're kiddin', kids?


	56. "It brings out your eyes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember chapter 32? The one with the silly string? Welllll, you might want to reacquaint yourself with it if you don't, because this chapter relies heavily on the events of that one.

It’s payback for the silly string incident.

It has to be.

Alex looks at Strand from under wet eyelashes, her hair sticking to her face. Strand clears his throat, coughs, but still he can’t hide the laugh that is threatening to bubble out of him.

“Go on,” Alex says. “I know you want to.”

“It brings out your eyes,” Strand says. He turns his head at her answering glare, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re very funny.”

She’s absolutely covered in mud, some of it still dripping sluggishly down her arms. Her clothes are ruined, her jeans and T-shirt sodden. Her socks are wet and her shoes squelch every time she shifts her weight. 

Half of her is happy to see Strand so amused, the other half, the uncomfortable half, just wants a shower and a change of clothes. Unfortunately, they are still out in the middle of the woods, their car a good hike away.

Strand manages to get control of himself, but his eyes still sparkle behind his glasses. He finally moves to help her, shrugging out of his flannel shirt and dipping it into the stream she had just fallen into. He dabs the fabric across her cheekbone, sweeping it gently underneath her eye. He has to re-wet the shirt a dozen times before he smiles down at her, satisfied.

“Ah, so there is an Alex underneath all that dirt, after all,” he says. He swipes a lock of her hair back behind her ear, making her shiver. “I thought I might have actually encountered the swamp thing.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in the swamp thing.”

“When faced with enough evidence,” Strand says. He eyes the rest of her, still covered in mud.

Alex gives him a wicked grin. “I’ll give you evidence.”

Strand’s eyes go wide. He puts both hands up in a warning gesture and backs away from her, one step and then another. “Alex, no.”

She follows him, lifting her arms in her best impression of a swamp creature. He doesn’t get the chance to back any further away before she pounces, wrapping her arms around him. He scrabbles at her shoulders, but the damage has already been done. While he isn’t quite as wet or dirty as she is when she steps back, she can see an outline of where she’d pressed herself against him on his white undershirt. 

“You were saying?” she asks, a sweet-as-syrup smile on her face.

He looks up at her, an intense look in his eyes. For a second, she thinks he might be angry with her. She opens her mouth to apologize, when he steps back into her personal space and claims her lips in a kiss.

Alex melts into it, automatically. Her muddy fingers make fists in his tee when he licks his way into her mouth.

Of all the times and places Alex had been certain he’d been about to kiss her, only to have him back down or be interrupted, Alex would never have expected it to finally happen in the woods, both of them dirty and wet. Strand doesn’t seem to mind, however. He pulls her closer, holding her against him with an arm around her waist and a hand tangled into her hair. 

When he finally pulls away, there are incriminating fingermarks all over his shirt. He huffs a laugh when he sees them. “The evidence does seem to be stacked against me. However, I may need further proof--”

Alex rises onto her tip toes, arms sliding around his neck, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where the hell is all this fluff coming from??


	57. "There is enough room for the both of us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My readers are the most lovely people, leaving me such nice comments. Here's some more fluff. <3

“No,” he says, and his tone is not one meant to be argued with.

Alex argues anyway. “Come on, you’re being unreasonable.”

“I’m not being unreasonable,” Strand says. He pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. He looks miserable. “It wouldn’t be right.”

She has to fight not to roll her eyes at him. “You’re supposed to be the logical one. There is no right and wrong about it. There is enough room for both of us.”

“I am considerably larger than--”

Alex doesn’t give him time to finish his thought--she already has the rebuttal ready. “Yes, we all know that you are freakishly tall. It’s a good thing, then, that I’m on the shorter side of the equation. It won’t even be a tight fit.”

“I am already--”

Again, Alex doesn’t give him the opportunity to finish speaking. She reaches out, grabs his arm, and _pulls_. 

He hadn’t expected her to manhandle him. She knows this because he nearly crashes into her, only stopping himself at the last second, putting his hand up over her head. He’s very close to her, towering over her, but at least he’s out of the rain.

Alex looks up at him, into wide, surprised eyes. “There, isn’t that better?”

Strand closes his eyes and shivers. He shakes his head, but Alex doesn’t think it’s in answer to her question. When he does speak, his voice is low, his words disappearing into her hair. “I am not _freakishly_ tall.”

Alex laughs. “You’re sopping wet and _that’s_ what you want to complain about?” 

He shivers again. “Don’t remind me.”

“You’re the one who wanted to stay out in the downpour,” Alex reminds him.

“To keep you and your recording equipment out of it.”

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

Strand breathes out a soft laugh, tickling the top of her head. “You also have both of our cell phones.”

“Oh, I see, so not exactly chivalrous.” She mock-pouts at him, but it’s mostly aimed at his chest. His clothes are stuck to him, his shirt dripping around his feet. She can’t imagine how uncomfortable he must feel, not when she’d taken cover under the outcropping of rock almost as soon as it had begun to rain. She’d had to stand there and watch him, arguing the entire time, as the rain came down harder and harder and Strand got more and more soaked.

“I have never been accused of being chivalrous,” Strand says. He sighs, ducking his head above her. “I’m sorry if I’m crowding you.”

He’s bowed over her, hand still on the rock above her head to keep some distance between them. 

“You’re not crowding me,” she says. “In fact, you can come closer. I’m pretty sure it’s still raining down your back.”

She knows he hadn’t wanted to say anything, the stubborn man. He shakes his head, just as she expects him to. “I’m fine.”

Alex actually does roll her eyes this time. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come here.”

He startles as soon as she touches him. “W-what are you doing?”

Snaking her arms around his waist, she pulls Strand toward her, making him step further into her space. “Being chivalrous,” she says, smiling up at him.

He tries to push himself away from her, but Alex doesn’t let go. “You’re going to get wet,” he says, as if that will bring her to her senses.

Alex pulls at him again, bringing him into a full embrace. She can feel the cotton of her shirt soaking up some of the water from his clothing, water spreading out over her jeans where his legs press against hers. Their electronics are in her bag, on the ground behind her feet, where she doesn’t have to worry about them getting ruined. “Put your arms around me,” she says.

“You’re going to get wet,” he says again. The protest is weak, especially now that she’s already begun to take on water.

“Then I’ll get wet,” she says, because it’s really that simple.

He sighs, but then he does put his arms around her, hesitant at first. Then, as if completely abandoning his argument, he holds her, crushing her against him.

It isn’t exactly comfortable, but Alex can’t bring herself to care. After a moment, the chilled fabric of his clothing begins to warm, their shared body heat curing the worst of his shivering. He holds her close and just breathes, deep and even. She can feel his heart beating steady and strong in his chest.

Alex closes her eyes and tries to memorize this moment, pressed against Strand while the sky pours just outside of their little shelter. It’s the safest she’s felt in a long, long time.


	58. "You don't have to say anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-consensual drug use--of a sorts--up ahead. Just an FYI.

Breathing seems like the best option. 

He isn’t quite sure he can do much else. So he focuses on that, focuses on the drag of oxygen into his lungs, focuses on the rush of carbon dioxide as it escapes him, focuses on the task of breathing as if his autonomic nervous system cannot be trusted to keep his respiratory system working without his conscious supervision. 

As far as he knows, his nervous system cannot be trusted at all. 

His skin is on fire. 

He can hear buzzing somewhere, like a swarm of angry bees, but the sound is coming from somewhere behind his eyes. He tries to shake his head, to get the buzzing to stop, but the attempt is stopped by a hand on his face, blessedly cool against his cheek.

His skin is on _fire_.

A second hand joins the first, holding his face between them. There are words, he thinks, but he can’t hear anything over the buzzing. He thinks, idly, that it is the sound of his brain melting in its case, that this sound is, perhaps, the only warning he will get before his skin is engulfed in flames.

He blinks, but the image of the woman before him is still unfamiliar. 

She’s wearing red, like the Western version of Satan himself, the dress hugging each curve of her body in sinful ways. She smiles and her canines seem too long, too sharp. 

He doesn’t know her and she looks _wrong_ , but her touch is a relief, the _only_ relief, for the way his body is _burning_.

The woman reaches up, winding her arms around him. The sensual slide of her skin against him, even through the long sleeves of his shirt, makes him shiver. She cradles the back of his head, carding her fingers through sweat soaked hair, and pulls him down to meet her.

He gasps, unable to stop himself, when her lips meet his. She pulls back, teasing, a grin on her strange features, but he chases her, desperate and demanding. He meets her again for another kiss, her mouth tasting of winters long past when he licks his way inside. He shivers again, or perhaps trembles, when her arctic tongue tangles with his. He doesn’t know, doesn’t care, just endeavors to deepen the kiss, turning his head to get a better angle. 

A sound breaks through the buzzing, something familiar, something that he latches onto in the hot, wet heat of his mind. He breaks the kiss and looks over the woman’s shoulder to see Alex Reagan standing in the doorway. An expression of hurt flashes through her eyes, before she crosses her arms and glares. “If you’re quite done here, Nic told me you wanted to see me.”

The woman doesn’t pull away from him, her arms still wrapped around him. She lays her head against Strand’s chest and purrs. “Darling, who is this?”

Strand doesn’t answer, can’t answer, the burning of his skin nearly overwhelming in its intensity. He _needs_ , needs something, but he doesn’t know what. He focuses again on breathing.

Alex’s eyes flicker from the woman in Strand’s arms up to Strand, her eyes narrow, taking in everything, as always, giving him nowhere to hide. Her features shift into something more quizzical, concerned, before her gaze returns to the woman. “Excuse me, but who are you? Unauthorized guests are not allowed in the building.”

“Honey, I am as authorized as they come. Right, darling?” The woman looks up at Strand, but he keeps his gaze locked on Alex.

“Strand, do you even know this person?” Alex asks.

“No,” he says. His words sound like they are coming from far away, as if they didn’t come from him at all.

“I’m sorry, miss, but you’re going to have to leave.”

The woman huffs in Strands arms. She pulls away from him, her hands moving to grip his arms when he doesn’t automatically follow. “Come on, darling.”

“No,” Alex says, “Strand stays here.”

Alex doesn’t back down when the woman turns furious eyes on her. “He’ll go where he pleases. And right now, it _pleases_ him to come with me.”

Strand takes a step when the woman pulls at him once more. The woman grins, flashing her too-sharp teeth. “See? He’s made his choice.”

Alex puts a hand on his chest. The balm of her touch keeps him rooted to the spot. “Go,” she tells the woman. “Before I call security.”

The woman glares, turning from Alex to Strand. “You’re going to wish you had come with me,” she says, before turning on her stiletto heels.

Alex watches her go, saying, “That was cryptic.” 

There is fire crawling along his skin. He can’t see it, and neither does it seem, does Alex, but it’s there. He sucks in a breath. If he can just _breathe_ , he convinces himself, he can stave off the inevitable moment when the flames consume him whole. 

“Hey, are you all right?” Alex asks.

It takes him a moment to realize that she is talking to him. It must be too long a moment, because Alex steps into his space. Casually, she puts her hand on his arm, just over where the woman had gripped him, and it feels so _good_ that without thinking, he gathers Alex to him, crushing her against him.

“Jesus, Richard,” she says, struggling against him. She pushes at his shoulders and he lets go, reluctantly letting her take several steps away from him. But instead of running, instead of getting as far away from him, away from the threat of combustion, Alex stays. “What did she do to you? You look--you look _drugged_.”

A wave of heat washes over him, a tsunami of molten plasma. His knees give way and he crumples to the ground. The tile does nothing to soothe his heated skin. It’s only touch, Alex’s touch, when she rushes to him, her hands inspecting him for injury, that offers any solace.

“You’re soaked through with sweat,” she says. She tugs at his shirt. “Let’s get this off of you.”

He hadn’t noticed, but his shirt is damp, as if he’d run several miles. He sits up with Alex’s help and lets her remove it, reminding himself to breathe all the while. 

She’s so close. 

Too close. 

Not close enough.

He opens his mouth, to tell her what, he doesn’t know, but all that comes out is a whimper.

Alex shushes him, carding her hands through his hair, pushing it back and away from his face. He leans into it, unable to escape the second whimper that escapes him. “You don’t have to say anything. Help is on its way, okay?”

He nods, because it’s the only thing he can do. He listens to her talk, her phone pressed against her ear as the person on the other end walks her through the steps of checking him over, presumably while the ambulance is already on its way.

Finally, the heat gets to be too much and darkness overtakes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, motivation, lovely to see you.


	59. "Wow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short follow-up to the last chapter. :)

“Please,” Strand pleads, writhing on the hospital bed. His long legs kick the blankets down to the edge, where one trailing end threatens to drag the whole thing to the floor. “Please,” he says again, broken and desperate. 

Alex hushes him, brushing a sweat-soaked lock of hair from his face. He _whines_ at the contact, tries to chase her fingers as they draw away until they’re out of his reach. Something akin to a sob escapes him and Alex has to fight to keep her heart from breaking. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. “Go back to sleep.”

He quiets, but Alex knows it won’t last long. He’s been unable to settle for more than a few minutes at a time, if that. 

Just as she expects, he kicks again at the bottom of the bed, his back curving off of the thin mattress, too reminiscent of a man undergoing an exorcism that Alex has to look away.

“Please,” he says. He tries to reach out for her, but the padded restraints around his wrists don’t allow the movement. He jerks at them, just as he’s done whenever he is reminded of them, before his whole body goes slack. He’s breathless, his heart rate elevated, his eyes staring blindly up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, blinking back tears. There isn’t anything she can do for him. She can’t unbuckle the restraints, not for fear of her own safety, but because she can still see the image of him clawing at himself, tearing at his skin until it bled, even with the bandages wrapped around his arms. Neither can she do anything about the fire that he’d been raving about when he’d first come to. The nurses had said it was all imagined, just delirium from the fever, but Strand had not stopped begging for relief, convinced of the flames licking at his skin.

His skin is hot to the touch when she puts her hand in his. He gasps, his whole body lurching on the bed. Alex tries to pull it back, fearful of putting him in more distress than he’s already in, but he latches on. His grip is too tight, at first, but then he curls around it--as much as he can without dislocating his shoulder--like her hand is something precious. He quiets and stills, the entirety of his being focused on that one point of contact.

Alex doesn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before.

“Wow,” she says, really thinking back, to when Strand had first been drugged at the station. He had been making out with the strange woman in red, despite never having seen her before in his life. He had hugged Alex, had scooped her up in his arms and had held her to him until she’d forced him to let her go. He’s never _hugged_ Alex before, and she has never known him to be the type of man to indulge in public displays, let alone a stranger. “I’m an idiot. It’s touch, right? That’s what you need? What you’ve been asking for this whole time?”

Strand doesn’t answer, simply curls more tightly around where their hands are clasped as soon as he senses that she’s about to pull away.

“Hey, it’s okay, give me a second.”

He makes the most pitiful sound when she finally convinces him to let go. Alex rewards him by carding her fingers through his hair while she thinks about the logistics of what she’s about to do next. “Please. Alex, please. I need--”

He shakes his head, unable or unwilling to voice what he needs.

It’s the first time he’s called her by name since the last time they’d spoken on the phone, when Strand had been himself, grumpy, but relatively normal. Alex hadn’t been sure he’d even known who it was sitting by his bedside. His pleas cement her decision and Alex hikes up her skirt to climb up and over the railing on the bed.

“Please let this work,” she says, more to herself than to him. She tucks herself against his side, pushing him to lie flat so he doesn’t hurt himself pulling at the restraints, her arm across his chest to keep him there. She can tell that he wants to put his arms around her by the way the restraints rattle, but he gives up without much of a fuss, sinking back into the mattress with a sigh.

Alex rests her head on his shoulder, doing her best to ignore the damp of his hospital gown. “Better?”

“Yes,” he says, the word dragged out in a hiss like steam being released. She wonders if he still feels like he’s on fire, wonders whether her proximity might have put it out.

“Oh. Good,” she says, because she isn’t sure what else she can say. She focuses instead on the way his body gradually relaxes, until finally, finally, she feels when he falls asleep.


	60. "Happy birthday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a quick mention of suicidal-ideation, but I PROMISE there is a happy ending. This is the third and last part of this arc. If you haven't read the two previous chapters, go back and read those first.

Alex wonders if, legally, it’s still breaking and entering if Strand had shown her where he put the spare key. Granted, he’d shown her only ‘in case of emergency,’ but Alex figures the situation might warrant drastic measures.

Or, he could call the police and Nic would give her that really disapproving face he does whenever she makes poor life choices.

Still, he’d post bail for her. 

Probably. 

Most likely.

She’s about 85 percent sure Nic would post bail for her.

Alex shakes her head, dispelling any doubts, and turns the key in the lock.

The house is quiet, all lights turned off. She fights against the urge to tiptoe as she looks around. She checks all of his usual haunts on the first floor, but there’s no Strand or any sign of recent habitation. Even the sink is clean of dishes.

Alex is willing to bet that the empty sink has more to do with Strand not eating rather than any fastidiousness on his part. She puts that thought away to deal with later and continues on.

She pokes around on the second floor, opening doors to empty rooms, each one clean and repainted, but lacking in anything remotely Strand-shaped.

“I know you’re here,” she says, but the earlier bravado she had felt is rapidly disappearing. There is another entire floor she could search, but it’s starting to feel more and more like a bad idea to be in his house without his knowledge.

It’s starting to feel like this is more about her self-interest than concern for his wellbeing. 

It’s starting to feel like yet another breach in his trust.

“Fuck,” she says. She deserves a thousand of Nic’s disapproving faces. He would call this a stunt and put his hands on his hips in a way that is eerily similar to her mother.

The mental image of a thousand-headed Nic-mom-beast only spurs her down the stairs faster.

Until she collides with a solid wall she could had sworn wasn’t there on the way up. She falls back onto the stairs, bruising her tailbone against the edge of one of the steps, and looks up.

“Alex,” Strand says. His voice is as dry and impersonal as his expression, but the lack of anger in it is, at least, a relief. “What an unexpected surprise.”

It takes her a moment to respond as she tries to gather her courage now that she’s actually face-to-face with him again.

She doesn’t know why she feels like she needs courage to speak with him. She’s never needed it before. As often as they misstep around each other, they’ve always had an understanding underneath it all.

Perhaps it’s the way his eyes refuse to meet hers.

Patting the pockets of her jacket, she finds the card that she had stuffed into it. She pulls it out, the burgundy envelope slightly wrinkled. The card is probably bent, but she hopes he won’t mind. She hands it to him, holding it out and then shaking it a little when he doesn’t immediately take it from her.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Happy birthday?”

He stares down at the card, but makes no move to open it. “It’s not my birthday,” he says.

Alex sighs. “I know. But there wasn’t really a card for ‘I’m-sorry-you-were-drugged-by-a-devil-woman-but-it’s-not-your-fault-she-spiked-your-tea.’ Not by Hallmark, anyway.”

Strand turns his head, blocking her out of view completely.

“You don’t have to open it. I just thought--you’ve been holed up in this house for _days_ and you won’t _talk_ to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Alex stands up, not believing his words for a second. “Really? This woman, whom not even MK can find any trace of, comes into my station and drugs your tea. You collapse at my feet. You end up in the hospital and I get to watch as you try to _claw_ the fire out from under your skin. Do you think that, maybe, _I_ would like to talk about it?”

Strand shakes his head. “You didn’t have to be there.”

Alex makes a pained noise of disbelief.

Strand turns back to her, his stare hard. The hand not holding the card is clenched into a fist. “You didn’t have to be there,” he says again. “What makes you think I even _wanted_ you there?”

Alex staggers back, as if physically struck. Strand betrays himself, moving to catch her, but Alex holds onto the railing and rights herself. She’s taller than him now, several steps above him, glaring down at him.

He still won’t meet her eyes.

“If your fever had climbed any higher, you could have died,” she says.

“Perhaps you should have let me.”

The words are quiet, said to the steps at her feet, but Alex catches them all the same. “What?”

“It’s nothing, Alex. Please, just go. I’ll come by the studio tomorrow.” He moves to let her pass him, but Alex plants her feet. If he wants her to go, he’ll have to bodily remove her.

“I can’t just _leave_ after you say something like that.”

He brushes his hand through his hair, something she’s only seen him do at his most stressed. “Fuck, Alex, I’m not--I’m not--”

“Suicidal? You can’t even say it.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” His shoulders slump and he moves to sit down on the stairs below her, his head hanging in between his knees.

Alex wants to reach out, but she remembers the way he had flinched away from her at the hospital, after his fever had broken and the drugs had passed through his system. She opts to move down the steps until she’s directly behind him, close enough that she hopes her proximity is a comfort on its own. “Well, you did,” she says, trying to keep her voice soft. “Which means now you have to talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I can’t live like this,” he says. Alex waits as he scrubs at his hair, as he collects his thoughts and pieces them together into words. “Every time I see you--think of you, even--I feel a spark of what I felt then.”

“Of when you were drugged?”

His head bobs in a nod. “It’s like an ember I can’t put out, threatening to burst into flame the moment I let my guard down. I can’t--I could never forgive myself if I--”

His hands wind up to hold onto the back of his neck, as if protecting a fragile piece of himself.

“If you what?” Alex asks.

“Hurt you.”

Alex shakes her head. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Wouldn’t I?” he asks, voice small. “I had no self-control. I wanted--”

Strand makes a noise, as if remembering his drug-addled state physically pains him.

“You wanted touch,” Alex says, remembering heated skin against her own.

If possible, Strand folds even farther into himself. “I wanted more than that. If those restraints hadn’t been there, I would have touched you, kissed you. I would have--I wanted--I _wanted_.”

Alex’s eyes go wide. It’s not as if she’s never thought about it before, what it would be like to kiss him. Half of what she’d felt when she’d seen him with the woman in red had been jealousy, the other anger that he would flaunt what she couldn’t have right in front of her, in her own station. “And you still want? You want me?”

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Please, go.”

Pulling herself up by the railing, Alex stands. Strand stiffens as she goes by, but instead of running for the front door, as he obviously expects, Alex crouches down in front of him. She tips his head up by the chin when he continues to stare down at her shoes. “Look at me.”

His eyes crawl up her face to finally meet her gaze. “Alex,” he says.

“Richard,” she says. When she moves to cup his jaw, he lets her. “I climbed into that bed with you because I wanted to. I couldn’t stand to see you suffering. And if you want to kiss me now, well, I wouldn’t exactly complain.”

“You wouldn’t--” he echoes, and then, “You want--?”

“Yes, Richard. I want. Very much.”

He rises up to press his lips to hers, but instead of a conflagration of need, it’s sweet and cool and chaste. He sighs into it, then presses his forehead to hers with a nervous breath of laughter.

“See? You didn’t hurt me.” And because she’s a pain and can’t help herself, she grins. “I think that might have been the opposite of hurt, actually.”

Strands lips twitch up in a half-smile. Alex kisses the curve of it and then pulls back, laughing.

“What?” he asks.

“You cursed. Earlier. You said ‘fuck.’ I’ve never heard you curse before.”

“I apologize if I wasn’t at my most eloquent.” 

“There’s the Richard Strand I know. Come on.” She stands, holding out her hand to help him up. “You need to shower and change because we are getting out of here.”

Strand takes her hand and lets her lead him from the stairs, the not-happy birthday card lying forgotten. Later, she’ll come by and tuck it into the trash, where it belongs. 

They’ve moved on.


	61. "I'll pick it up after work."

“I’ll pick it up after work,” Strand says, sounding distracted. Alex can hear the scratch of a pen on the other end of the line.

“Okay, thanks,” Alex says, feeling relieved. She’s double-booked herself for interviews today and there is no way she’ll be able to pick up dinner and get to Strand’s house by the time they’d agreed to meet. Her relief changes, however, when she replays his words in her head. “Wait, what do you mean by work? I thought you had taken an ‘unexpected and indefinite’ sabbatical?”

Strand pauses, his pen halting. “I was asked to give a talk.”

“By the same company that always books you? The one we discovered had ties to Daeva Corp.?”

“Yes.”

Alex tries to keep the betrayal out of her voice. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Strand sighs. “Likely, nothing will happen. It’s just a talk. There will be hundreds of students in attendance. If Thomas Warren wanted to come after me, I doubt he would do so in front of so many witnesses.”

“But,” Alex says, worry tightening in the pit of her stomach. But she can’t find the words to argue with him, knowing he’s already made up his mind.

Strands voice softens. There is a snuffling sound as he changes the phone from one ear to the other. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I want you to be safe.”

Strand laughs. “I meant, what do you want for dinner?”

Her ears burn and she’s glad that he’s not there to witness her embarrassment. “Oh. Right. Italian?”

“Your usual?” he asks.

They’ve been meeting for dinner more now that Strand is in Seattle, to discuss the Black Tapes and their progress in finding the Advocate. Alex hadn’t realized it had been so often that Strand already knew her preferred order. “Uh, yeah,” she says. “The usual.”

“I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.” 

Alex waits for the connection to end, but it doesn’t just yet. “Alex?” Strand asks.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be careful.”

Some of the anxiety eases, but not all of it. “Thanks,” she says, forcing herself to smile. “Have a good talk.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

It’s not until she knocks on his door later that evening, when he opens it barefoot with his sleeves rolled up, when the comforting smell of bread and pasta washes over her, that Alex finally relaxes. And if she sits closer to him on the couch than she needs to, their arms brushing as they eat and talk, Strand doesn’t mention it.


	62. "It can wait until tomorrow."

Her hair is soft under the pads of his fingers. She nuzzles closer, her head pillowed on his chest as they lay across one of Ruby’s up-cycled sofas. Strand hesitates, letting her resettle before his fingers are once again in her hair, silken strands parting like water whenever he cards through them. Alex makes a small, pleased sound, her eyes closed, but not yet asleep.

Her weight is a welcome comfort above him, their legs tangled at the end of the sofa. He does his best not to move, except for the slide of his fingers in her hair, fearful of spoiling this quiet moment.

“Mmm,” Alex says, going completely boneless when his fingers find her scalp. 

“Should I stop?” he asks, voice hushed.

Her words are barely more than breath against his chest. “No, keep doing that. It feels nice.”

Wordlessly, he continues, delighting in the little sighs that escape her.

“We should get up,” Alex says, but she makes no move to do so.

Strand hums in agreement.

“There’s so much to do,” she says, but her words are not the motivation she was clearly hoping them to be. If anything, she snuggles closer to him. She doesn’t complain when his free arm snakes around her waist, holding her to him.

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Strand says.

Her head comes up, tired eyes looking down at him. “Are you sure? I must be getting heavy.”

“I’m sure,” he says. “Stay where you are.”

Alex shifts, her body coming to rest in the small space between him and the back of the sofa, still half on top of him, her fingers absentmindedly moving back and forth over his collarbone. She closes her eyes as she yawns. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shortest and sleepiest of updates. *yawn*


	63. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

The building looms tall, all concrete and dark metal. It reminds Alex more of a prison than an abandoned mental hospital. It’s completely at odds with the clean, business-friendly lines of the credit union Alex had so long ago visited with Dr. Emily DuMont. Shadows seem to linger in each window, the glass blown out of the frames, leaving large shards glittering in some places, what little light provided by their flashlights catching on jagged edges. Alex imagines that she can see eyes staring back out at her and tears her eyes away, focusing instead on the crunch of her boots as she makes her way through the overgrown grass to the front doors of the hospital, both completely boarded over with aging, graffiti-covered wood.

Strand leads the way, stepping with confidence when all Alex wants to do is shrink away and head back to the car. She moves closer to her companion and he looks down with a slight frown. Alex expects him to say something, expects him to mock her for her discomfort, but he doesn’t. Perhaps it is too dark for him to observe her expression, to see the fear in her eyes and in the tight lines of her body. Alex holds onto her recorder, her fingers tightening around it’s comforting weight in her hand and tries to remember why they are here, why it’s important that she doesn’t turn tail and run.

Simon Reese had mentioned this hospital, in one of his untraceable text messages. Alex doesn’t know how he’d gotten hold of a phone, doesn’t know how he even knows the concept of a burner phone after having spent a majority of his life locked away, without even access to the internet. But he’d texted her from an unknown number, different from the last, had included an unfocused image of one of the walls, blurry concentric circles and familiar symbols jumping out at Alex immediately. The caption had read, “I was never the only one.”

Alex shivers, unable to clamp down on it. Strand either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, more intent on studying the chains wound through the handles of the door.

“There could be another way inside?” She flinches as soon as the words leave her mouth. They would have to leave the overgrown path to wander around the building in the dark, something she does _not_ want to do.

Thankfully, Strand shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. Hold this.”

He hands his flashlight to her, directing her to hold it so that the light falls over the padlock. He kneels down and bends over the lock. He fiddles with it for just a moment, Alex unable to see what exactly he is doing, before he makes a satisfied sound and lays the open lock down on the concrete, the ends of the chains rattling as they fall away from each other.

Alex stares at him for a long moment as he begins to unwind the chain. Had he just _picked_ the _lock_? “How did you do that?”

Strand looks up at her, then follows her gaze to the padlock on the ground between them. His mouth quirks into a wry smile. If he were any other man, he might have said ‘magic,’ but because he is Strand, he shrugs and goes back to work. It doesn’t take him long before the chain is lying in a pile of half-rusted links beside the lock. 

The main lock must be disengaged or broken, because when Strand stands up to try the one of doors, it swings open, hinges squealing from disuse.

Alex looks into the blackness of the hospital, trying not to attribute the sudden breeze to the rush of haunted spirits escaping into the night, picking at her hair and clothing with ghostly fingers. She shakes her head, ignoring what sounds too close to laughter being carried out on the wind.

It’s all in her head. 

It’s _all_ in her _head_.

She nearly shrieks when she feels a hand brush at her elbow, but the sound is stuck behind her heart, which is suddenly beating double-time in her throat. She jumps away from the touch, immediately feeling stupid when she turns to see that it had only been Strand.

He looks down and away before clearing his throat. His voice is impossibly gentle. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It--It’s okay,” Alex says, trying to pull herself together. Strand waits, uncharacteristically patient as she wills her heart rate back to normal. She feels as if she’s just sprinted a mile and they’ve barely even started.

Taking a deep breath, Alex hands him the extra flashlight and makes herself enter the hospital. Their movements echo in the abandoned space, Strand walking behind her like a particularly tall shadow made flesh. She wonders, idly, if his presence will be enough to keep the other shadows away. Or if the shining aura of his skepticism will call to them like a beacon. 

“Of all the places,” she says, sweeping her flashlight back and forth through the halls. “Why did it have to be so creepy?”

Strand looks over at her, his hand still on the handle of a door. Locked, like the rest of the doors they have tried. Instead of picking them, or whatever Strand had done to the padlock on the outside, Strand just shines his flashlight through dusty observation windows and allows them to remain closed. 

Alex tries not to watch, half expecting a face to jump out, spitting and hissing at the invasion of its space.

“I agree,” Strand says, moving on to another door. “Abandoned spaces can be disconcerting. A reminder that human life and its domination of the environment are temporary, at best.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘spooky old mental hospital,’” Alex says, averting her eyes when he brings the flashlight up again to peer into a window.

“Given the history of mental institutions and modern depictions of mental disorders in entertainment, it is unsurprising that you feel that way.”

Alex kicks at a piece of debris. “You’re seriously not getting any weird vibes from this place?”

He looks at her, his blue eyes knowing. “No, Alex. It’s just a building, however empty or dark. The most we are likely to encounter is a rat or two.”

Alex shudders. “Yeah, that’s not really helping.”

“They are more afraid of you, than you are of them,” he says, a smile pulling at his lips. “The rats, I mean. I can’t say the same of any racoons we meet.”

“Still not helping.”

Strand shrugs, as if to say ‘I tried.’

They come to an intersection and Strand pauses, indicating that she should choose which direction to take. Alex nods towards the left-hand path and waits for Strand to go first.

“So,” Alex says. Her voice sounds too-loud in the dark, but she refuses to whisper. There isn’t anyone--or anything--in the building, besides rats. Or racoons. Neither of which could be listening in. 

“So?” Strand prompts.

“Breaking and entering? Do you do that often?”

Strand laughs. “Do I detect judgment in your tone, Alex?”

Alex colors. She thinks of Maddie Franks and all of the other legally grey actions she’s committed in just the last year. “No. I just would never have--”

Alex comes to a complete halt in the center of the hallway. A shadow moves in the darkness just beyond, bigger than a raccoon could ever be.

“Expected it from me,” Strand finishes. He hasn’t noticed that Alex is no longer following along, that she’s rooted to the spot with fear, not until he turns to look at her beside him to find her no longer there. “Alex?”

“There’s something here,” she says, whispering. She signals down the hall with a nod of her head.

“Something,” Strand says, the word coming out flat in disbelief. 

“ _Someone_. I don’t know.”

Strand shines his flashlight down the hall, but there is nothing there. He raises his brows at Alex, a subtle hint at ‘I told you so.’

Alex closes her eyes, embarrassed. She thinks it’s just her insomnia playing tricks on her, but then she hears it: an unmistakable shuffling coming from one of the rooms. “Richard.”

“I heard it,” he says. Then, raising his voice, he calls, “This is private property. Show yourself before I call the authorities.”

There is a metallic clang of something being thrown to the ground before a hooded figure emerges from one of the rooms. It looks at them, head tilting under the hood, for just a moment. Then, it turns to run, surprisingly fast, down the corridor and into the maze of halls they haven’t yet explored. 

“Wait here,” Strand says. “Do not move.”

Before she can protest, Strand is running after the figure, the light from his flashlight flittering frantically as he goes. She loses sight of him first and then even the pounding of his footsteps is lost to her, leaving her alone in the dark, with nothing but her own cheap flashlight for company.

As the minutes drag by, Alex regrets not having followed Strand. He could be upset at her not following directions all he wanted, but anything would have been better than being left by herself, at the mercy of her overactive imagination.

She keeps seeing shadows moving out of her peripheral vision, keeps jumping at every little sound echoing around her. Whenever a gust of night air blows through, alerting Alex to a door or a window open somewhere in the hospital, she imagines warm breath on the back of her neck.

Worst of all, she keeps thinking of Strand, having gone after a strange figure on his own. What if he’s been hurt? What if he’s lying somewhere, bleeding? What if the figure, having taken care of Strand is circling around to find her? Should she be calling 911?

She’s so wrapped up in her anxiety that she doesn’t hear the drag of uneven breath until it’s just behind her. She stills, cursing herself for giving her position away with the light of her flashlight, pooling on the floor around her feet. She curls inward, expecting some kind of blow.

Gentle fingers brush her arm. “Alex.”

Her flashlight bounces against the linoleum, the plastic cracking and the light flickering, but not going out. Alex turns, not aware of the tears sliding down her face until she presses into the warmth of Strand’s chest. She hits him with her fist, not hard, but enough to emphasize her words. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Reflectively, his arms wrap around her middle, holding her close. One of his hands finds it’s way to the back of her head, his fingers tangling with her hair. He doesn’t do anything so patronizing as shush her, which Alex appreciates. He simply lets her take her comfort and wipes the tears from her cheeks when she finally pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think.”

“You reacted, I know. You still have to promise not to do it again.”

It’s difficult to see his expression with her flashlight down on the ground, but she thinks she sees him smile. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You’re not allowed to die,” she says. It’s so unexpectedly fierce that it startles the both of them.

Strand clears his throat, recovering first. “Yes. Well. I was unable to catch our unexpected guest. He climbed out of a window before I was able to stop him.”

“We should go check out that room,” Alex says, slipping back into the mantle of reporter. “I want to know what he was doing here.”

Strand retrieves her flashlight, brushing it off before handing it to her. “Good idea. It’s unlikely this was a simple case of a bored teenager defacing private property. It’s too much of a coincidence that someone would be here on the same night of our investigation.”

As they walk, Alex says, “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

“On the contrary. Coincidences happen all the time. It’s the subjective meaning behind them that I often find troubling.” Strand finds the room the figure had emerged from, the only door left ajar that Alex has seen all night. He opens it the rest of the way and Alex scrunches her nose as the reek of wet paint hits her.

The room has been stripped of furniture, sold off, most likely, when the mental hospital closed its doors. The only item left behind is a can of spray paint, left haphazard in the corner of the room. Alex swings her flashlight around, examining the floor and then the walls. Three out of four walls are blank. The last wall--the south wall, her mind supplies--is covered in dripping black paint.

“It was here,” Alex says. “Someone is trying to cover it up, but I _know_ it was here.”

“It certainly appears that way.” Strand swipes at the paint with two fingers, but the paint is rapidly drying and not enough of it comes away to see what was underneath.

Alex stares at the wall for a long time, as if she could peel away the layers of the paint with her eyes alone. She sighs, her shoulders dropping. She exhausted now, from fear and disappointment. “Let’s get out of here. Maybe Simon Reese will have another cryptic clue to follow once I tell him this was just a dead end.”

She expects the familiar lecture about taking advice from escaped convicts from mental health wards, but Strand only hums in agreement. “The sun should be rising soon.”

 _That_ is the best news Alex has heard all night. “Coffee and bagels?”


	64. "It's two sugars, right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short, written just before the new episode dropped, so no spoilers here.

Strand makes a face when Alex takes a healthy sip of her coffee, enjoying the warmth that goes through her, if not the taste. Or the texture. The coffee at the diner is little more than a thick sludge. She’s too exhausted to care.

The scraping of Strand’s knife against the burnt edges of his bagel is almost soothing. Her eyes droop as she leans on her hand, elbow stuck to the laminated menu on the table.

“Can I get either of you more coffee?” the waitress asks. Alex barely has the energy to look up at her through her lashes, still painted with flaky, day-old mascara.

“None for me, thank you,” Strand says.

The waitress looks to Alex with concerned eyes--Alex probably looks ready to drop face-first into her breakfast. 

“Leave the pot, please.” She is absolutely going to need it.

“Sure thing, honey.” Before she leaves, the waitress tops off Alex’s cup. The steam wafting from it only serves to make her feel sleepier.

“It’s two sugars, right?” Strand asks, coming to her rescue. Alex smiles at him, watching him tear open two packets of sugar and pour them into her coffee. He stirs it for her, the spoon tinkling against the ceramic mug. He pushes it closer to her once he’s finished. “Drink. You can sleep in the car on the way back to Seattle.”

Alex yawns, but does as he says, only remembering to blow on the coffee to cool it at the last second. “But it’s my turn to drive.”

“Next time,” he says, and takes a bite of his bagel, smeared with butter and strawberry jam. This time, it’s Alex who makes a face, but whether it’s his insistence on driving or the monstrosity of a bagel he’s currently shoving into his mouth, Alex is too tired to say.

“Okay, fine,” is what she does manage, losing most of the syllables in another yawn.

“Excellent,” Strand says. There is a smudge of jam at the corner of his mouth and for a sleep-addled second, Alex wonders what it would be like to kiss it away, whether he would taste like strawberries and diner tea.

She colors, pulling back from the image in her head, as if he too could see it if he only looked. But he isn’t looking. He’s pulling out a twenty dollar bill from his wallet. He doesn’t ask for change when the waitress comes by to collect the check.

“We should get going,” he says, tilting his head toward the exit.

As much as she had complained just a few minutes ago, Alex is grateful for the chance to sleep. Strapped into the passenger seat, the chair reclined, but not all the way back, the exhaustion rushes up to meet her. She thinks she might be imagining it when she hears Strand murmur, “Sweet dreams, Alex.”


	65. "I'll help you study."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huge thank you to the PNWS writers for 2x10, because that episode was absolutely perfect for a prompt i had NO idea what to do with.

Strand is psychic. Or seems to be. Or...something. 

It’s a conversation Alex doesn’t want to have on the phone, but she doesn’t want to go to Chicago either, not when the investigation feels like it’s really heating up, like they are finally onto something, _finally_ following the right leads. 

So she waits.

Ruby answers the door. One look at Alex’s expression and she high-tails it out of Strand’s house, only pausing to gather her things and call out a goodbye.

Strand doesn’t answer. Alex doesn’t need to have doctorates from Ivy League universities to know where he is. These days, when he’s home, he rarely leaves his basement.

He meets her at the foot of the stairs, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up over his forearms and a mug of tea in his hands. He raises his eyebrows as he takes a slow sip of his tea. “Where’s Ruby?”

“She left. We need to talk.”

Strand’s eyes darken at her tone. He sets his mug down and when he turns back to her, everything about him is stiff, guarded.

“I _knew_ you were hiding something from me when I asked about the boy and the river,” she says. “But I humored you. I researched and dug up what I could, talked to people from the area--from your hometown--who were around at the time. I didn’t _just_ find out the boy’s name. Or the grisly details of his murder. You _know_ what I found.” 

Alex can’t help but stare at him accusingly, her eyes begging him to break down and just tell her the truth for once. 

A thrill of anger, mixed with disappointment, goes through her at his answer, delivered after a lengthy pause. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Bobby Mames’ body wasn’t found by his best friend. It was _you_ who led that group of boys there. It was _you_ who found him.”

Strand hardly even blinks. If he were guarded before, now he looks blank--a last ditch effort at hiding when the truth is right there, right in front of them.

Alex takes a deep breath, tries to gentle her voice. “How did you find him? How did you know where his body was?”

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, like he’s staving off a headache. “I don’t know.”

“You do know. Or you wouldn’t have hidden the truth. Cheryl wouldn’t have told me to ask you about it if she didn’t think there was something important about it--about you. Tell me what it is. How did you know where to find that boy’s body?”

There is something desperate behind his eyes when he opens them again, almost pleading. He looks like he wants to run, but Alex hasn’t left her place in front of the staircase, blocking the exit. But he hasn’t tried to flee yet, hasn’t even demanded that she leave. A part of her thinks he might _want_ this, an opportunity to come clean.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he says, running both hands through his hair. He turns away from her, pacing a few steps before making his way back to his original position. “You weren’t--I don’t--I just _knew_.”

“How?”

“ _I_ _don’t_ _know_.” 

“So, you’re--what, psychic? What other things have you just _known_? Can you read my thoughts?”

He rubs at his eyes behind his glasses and sighs. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not?”

There is exasperation painted into the lines of his frown when he looks at her. “Because it--it just doesn’t.”

“But you’re saying that it _does_ work. That you _are_ psychic. Or something like that.”

“No. I’m not. Because it’s not real. There is no such thing--”

Alex’s hands find their way to her hips, her expression enough to stop him from finishing that statement.

“I can’t see the future, Alex. The human brain doesn’t have that capacity.”

“But you do have the capacity for _something_. That’s why your father was grooming you, why he was going to send you away--”

Strand puts up a hand, shakes his head. “He--my father, what?”

Alex hadn’t meant to tell him this way, had wanted to sit down and break the news to him gently. But they’re here now and she has no choice but to elaborate. “When you were in Chicago, I found some letters in your father’s things. Behind a picture.”

“Show me.”

She points to the pile of Howard Strand’s things. As much as she’d wanted to take them, even just to make copies for her notes, it hadn’t felt right. He needed to see them first. “They’re over there.”

He pulls letter after letter out of their respective envelopes, eyes moving fast across the his father’s neat script and the scrawled replies. He’s already pale, but the remaining color bleeds out of his face, making him look ghostly under the basement lights. “I don’t understand,” he says, still looking down at the paper in his hands.

“You saw the Tall Men. You knew where to find this poor kid’s body when no one else did. Your dad must have put the pieces together. He must have known you were something special.”

“I’m not special,” Strand says, hands fisting, crumpling the paper still caught in his grasp. “I’m _not_ clairvoyant. I _can’t_ be.”

“Why can’t you? And don’t tell me ‘because it isn’t possible.’ Assume that it is. Why can’t you be?”

He’s trembling with barely restrained emotion, eyes overbright when he meets her gaze. “Because I could have stopped it. All of it, before it was too late.”

Alex takes a step toward him, but he backs away. “Stopped what, Richard?”

“ _Everything_. I’ve lost everyone, _everyone_ I’ve ever loved, one after the other. I could have stopped it, if I had just _seen_ it happening. My father-- My mother’s illness. Coralee, Charlie, Cheryl.” He chokes, the words stuck behind the hand he brings up to cover his mouth, like he can shove everything he’d said back inside of him. 

When Alex takes another step forward, unable to stop herself, Strand lets her. She takes another step and then another, until she can finally pull him into her arms. Alex rubs at his back in what she hopes are soothing circles. “None of this has been your fault, Richard.”

His back bows as he bends down to hide his face in the crook of her shoulder. “What if it is? If I’d just worked harder--”

“You’ve been working nonstop since I met you,” Alex says. “It’s enough. You’re enough.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

Alex cards her fingers through his hair. “You’ve spent your whole life denying that any of this exists, but I’m starting to believe, Richard. There is something going on here and you’re right in the middle of all of it. You _are_ special. Even if you can’t, I can believe that enough for the both of us.”

“I can’t--I’m not,” he says, but Alex doesn’t let him finish.

“How do you know? Maybe you just need to practice?”

“Practice.” The word is quiet, full of doubt.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “I’ll help you study.”

Strand breathes out. It’s not agreement, not anywhere close, but it’s also not a denial. For Richard Strand, Alex thinks, that’s as much of a start as she can hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not saying Richie is psychic, but i'm also saying that i'm having too much fun with Richie being psychic. 
> 
> also, i'm having WAY too much fun with the nickname Richie for Strand. please send help.


	66. "Stay over."

He keeps tapping his foot. And it is driving her _crazy_.

He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s even doing it. He’s staring down at the books--plural--that he has spread out before him, flipping through pages of one before cross-referencing the information in another, looking the picture of being completely engrossed in his research. Except that he keeps tapping his foot, his knee bouncing like he’s had too much caffeine. But the tea in front of him is untouched, probably ice cold for how long it’s been sitting there.

He looks up, his gaze doubling back to her when he realizes that she’s been watching him. He clears his throat, leg still bouncing. “Did you need something?”

“You’re, um, jittery today.”

The tapping of his foot stills, leaving the room in blessed silence.

Alex smiles. “Thanks.” 

Strand nods and they both go back to reading.

It’s quiet for all of five minutes before the tapping starts again.

“Strand,” she says, hoping that will be enough of a reminder. It is. Without a word, the tapping stops.

For a total of three minutes. She has her phone out, timing him on the stopwatch app. She lets it go on for another minute, before she sighs and looks at him again. His jaw clenches and unclenches with the movement of his foot. “Are you okay? You seem...anxious.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll be right back.”

He practically shoves himself from the table. He takes the stares up into the house proper two at a time, until she’s left alone in his basement bunker.

On a whim, she resets the stopwatch, timing his absence. She tries to ignore it and dive back into her own research--a book Strand had found in his father’s attic with references to Tiamat--but she can’t help glancing at it every few sentences.

Ten minutes go by. Then twenty.

Almost thirty minutes pass and, still, there is no sign of Strand. 

Alex grabs her mug from the table and makes her way up the stairs, telling herself firmly that she is only going to the kitchen to make more coffee. She’s not going upstairs to check on him, even if he did look half-way like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin before he left.

She shudders at the imagery--probably best not to get her imagination started. She doesn’t need to give her nightmares any more fuel, especially when she’d just been reading about blood sacrifices to a chthonic creation goddess. If she can ever get to sleep long enough to have nightmares, that is.

Whatever she expected to find, it wasn’t Strand, sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Both of his legs are jumping under the table now. He’s taking deep, measured breaths, as if trying to get himself under control. 

He doesn’t startle when she enters the kitchen. He’s either ignoring her or too much in his own head to notice her presence. It saves her from having to recite her weak excuse of getting more coffee, anyway.

She dumps out the old coffee still in the pot and cleans the carafe, just to make noise, just to let him know that he isn’t alone. She puts a few scoops of coffee grounds into the machine to brew, and having run out of things to occupy her hands, at least until the coffee is done, she turns to face him.

His legs have stopped moving, crossed at the ankles under his chair as if to remind himself to be still. He’s still breathing slowly, head still buried in his hands, his breath hitching every now and again before he gets it back on track.

“Panic attacks suck, don’t they?” she asks, leaning against the counter where she won’t crowd him.

“How did you know?”

Alex laughs a little. Not to insult him, but in commiseration. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Not nearly as much as you, and yet, there are still days where I feel like my heart is pounding hard enough to burst in my chest. It’s really the worst.”

He returns her laugh with a quiet, bitter exhale, which Alex takes to be agreement. 

“Are you okay with me coming closer?”

He nods without looking at her.

Alex sits down at the table beside him, slowly, giving him time to change his mind or direct her to another chair. “They aren’t supposed to last this long,” she says.

“It’s not. It hasn’t,” he says. He breathes in and back out again and it’s more ragged, as if he’s losing the fight. “I can feel it.”

To anyone else, his words might not have made sense. But Alex gets it. In addition to days where her chest feels tight and her mind tells her that she’s dying, only to be fine--well, mostly fine--afterward, there are other days. Days where she feels on the verge of an attack, like it’s hovering over her, a dark thundercloud threatening thunder and lightning or an executioner’s axe poised to fall. The feeling can last hours, making her feel more anxious than the attack itself. 

“One of those days, huh?”

He finally looks at her, his eyes studying her like something new, something that should have been obvious, has just slotted into place for him. “Yes. One of those days.”

“The worst thing you can do is give into it.”

Strand laughs.

Alex smiles. “I know, easier said than done.”

“Then what do you propose?”

“A break. Come on.” She holds out her hand, palm up until he takes it. 

They end up in the family room, sharing one of the sofas. Alex leans into him, as much of a method of grounding him as it is so they can both watch the videos she pulls up on her phone. She shows him all of her favorite videos for pulling herself out of her own head on those days she needs a distraction. There are old flash videos (“These are all quotes from Fight Club.”), newer videos (“Is this why Ruby keeps saying, ‘Open the door. Stop having it be closed,’ every time she stops by?”), and videos of animals just being adorable (“I don’t get it. That cat just keeps jumping in and out of that box.”). By the time Alex looks up, the sun has set and the room is bathed in darkness.

“I hadn’t realized it’d gotten so late. Feeling any better?”

Strand’s eyes turn inward, doing a quick inventory of himself. “A little. Yes.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, knocking her shoulder into his.

“I--” he smiles. She’s glad to see that he looks much better than before. He’s more relaxed now, rather than a tightly packed bundle of barely concealed nervous energy. “Thank you, Alex.”

“Anytime.” She stretches, raising her arms high over her head. “Well, I should get going. It’s been a long day and you should probably rest. I know I’m always exhausted on days like this.”

He catches her arm as she starts to get up. “Stay over.”

A flush rises up the back of Alex’s neck and all the way to the tips of her ears. Strand’s eyes widen and he clears his throat. “Ah. I meant--you don’t have to leave. I’m sure you’re hungry. I could make us something for dinner.”

A grin replaces the blush on her face as she imagines him wearing an apron with a ‘Kiss The Cook’ slogan printed across it. “You cook?”

He glances at her with the same expression he often gives Nic, when Nic asks a question before really thinking it through.

She shakes her head, smile still on her face. “Of course you can cook. Do you _like_ to cook?”

“It’s something to do with my hands. And I’d like to...thank you. For today.”

Alex nearly says no, nearly tells him that he should concentrate on getting some rest. But she also can’t resist the thought of a home cooked meal, from Strand no less. “Yeah, okay. That sounds great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at these babies, they've got anxiety! 
> 
> I had a hard time with this chapter, mostly because I started it based on my own feelings of anxiety. (Which kept telling me that I was running out of time. Running out of time for WHAT, anxiety?! I don't exactly have any deadlines, at the moment.) Anyway, hopefully this chapter didn't suffer for it--I finished it a day after, when my anxiety wasn't so bad, so the tone might be a little off. Anyway, thanks again for reading. Any questions, comments, concerns are always welcome and always mean a lot.


	67. "I did the dishes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware--there are mentions of blood and violence in this chapter.

He wakes with a gasp. 

He immediately looks to his right, to his companion, relieved to find her still asleep, breath soft and slow against the pillow she has hugged to her chest. He resists the urge to sweep a stray lock of hair behind her ear, knowing how fickle her own sleep tends to be--there one moment and gone the next. He satisfies himself with looking at her, clad in nothing but a loose sheet, until his heart rate returns to normal and the residual fear subsides. 

The nightmares are getting worse. Shadows and demons and blood, so much blood. Tears on Alex’s cheeks as she begs, the knife in her hand gleaming a bright red, her arms dripping with the evidence of what she’s done. He drowns, throat sliced in a horrible facsimile of a smile. The fingers of the hand not holding her knife are twisted in his hair. She pulls harder as she watches him, cries for him. Her eyes are filled with horror and unshed tears, but there is something dark and twisted lurking in them, belonging to someone--or _something--_ not his Alex.

Strand takes care as he rolls out of Alex’s bed. The carpet is different from his own icy wooden floors. He takes a moment to curl his toes in the fibers, impressing upon himself that the softness and warmth he feels is _real_ and _now_ , not the hellish place his subconscious keeps transporting him to every time he closes his eyes. 

He stands and nearly trips over his slacks before he finds them. He’s lost so much weight over the last few months that they ride low on his hips, but he can’t be bothered to find the belt. His shirt is near the end of the bed, lying in a dark pool on the floor, and if he let himself, he could convince himself that it’s a stain, slowly dying the carpet a deep red. If he let himself, he could convince himself that the air in Alex’s room becomes sharp and metallic with the reek of blood.

He doesn’t let himself. He scoops it from the floor and it is nothing but a shirt. He shrugs into it, but leaves it open, his fingers too unsteady to do up the buttons.

Strand shuts the door on silent hinges and leaves Alex to sleep. For as long as her own nightmares will let her.

He can count on one hand how many times he’s spent the night in her apartment. His fingers drag across the wall as he makes his way through the unfamiliar hall, faltering once as he comes to the open doorway of the guest bathroom, until he makes it into Alex’s living space. He hadn’t dared turn on a light so close to Alex’s bedroom, but he deems it safe enough to flick on the light above the stove in her small kitchen. It isn’t bright enough to banish the worst of the shadows, but at least he can see.

Strand rummages through Alex’s cupboards until he finds a glass, then fills it from the tap. He takes a sip and then brings the cool glass to rest against the side of his face. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of condensation dripping over his fingers, hating how long it takes him to return fully to the waking world after one of his nightmares. He can still feel the ghostly grip of fingers pulling at his hair.

He drains the rest of the water in the glass and for something to do, something to distract himself, he begins to wash it. The glass goes in the rack Alex has set up on the counter. Another joins it, and then another, until he has washed every dish in her sink. Lost as he is in the mindless repetition of washing, he doesn’t notice that the water isn’t water until he’s staring down into an empty sink.

The water is thick and hot and red.

He shuts it off, wipes his blood-stained hands on his shirt and then throws the soiled bundle across the room. He turns away from the sink, from the dishes he can’t bare to look at, afraid of what he might see. He slides down the linoleum, until he’s sitting on Alex’s kitchen floor. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at one of the pictures on Alex’s refrigerator. It’s a picture of her and Nic, both carrying audio equipment, both smiling huge smiles. He finds comfort there, knowing that this picture must have been taken before The Black Tapes Podcast had been conceived, before Strand had entered their lives. Neither have the now almost-permanent dark circles smudged under their eyes. Neither look like they are about to crumble under the weight of knowledge too heavy for them to bare. In the picture, they are just a young woman and a young man, excited to be doing what they love.

A door opens, but Strand doesn’t let his gaze move from the old photograph, determined not to give into the nightmare. 

“Strand?”

It’s Alex, standing in the archway. He knows it’s her and not the nightmare because her toenails are painted a delicate pink and she hasn’t called him ‘Richie.’

He sighs and looks up at her. She’s wearing his T-shirt, the one he had ‘lost’ the last time he’d spent the night. “Alex.”

She yawns and stretches, still looking as exhausted as she had when they’d fallen into bed only a few short hours ago. She raises an eyebrow at him, inviting him to explain why he’s currently on the floor of her kitchen and not in bed where she’d left him--it’s usually she, not him, who tiptoes out of the room after a failed night of sleep.

Instead of giving voice to the question, she shrugs and steps over his legs, heading straight for the coffee machine. 

“I did the dishes,” he says. 

She looks over at the rack and he relaxes a little when she doesn’t stumble back in horror. Clean, then. No sign of blood.

“Oh. Thanks,” she says. If she thinks it strange that he’s washed them for her, she doesn’t say so. Instead, she asks, “Do you want breakfast?”

The thought of food makes his stomach turn. He can only imagine what he’ll see on his plate. “I’m--not quite up to it, no.”

Alex looks relieved at his answer, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Me neither. I’ve been having the worst nightmares.”

Something cold runs through him, making him shiver. He has to force himself to speak, to ask, “What about?”

“It--it’s terrible,” she says. “I know what you’re going to say--that it’s not real, that everything is fine. But it doesn’t make it feel any less _real_.”

She takes a moment, waiting for him to tell her those exact words, but Strand finds himself staring up at her, frozen. He’s _willing_ her to tell him about reoccurring nightmares of falling or being chased by unnamed, unseen things. But he knows, _knows_ , that neither are the case.

“I’m possessed, I think,” Alex says, “In the dream. I’m me, but not me. And you’re there. And I don’t want to, but there is this knife in my hand and a voice screaming in my head about a sacrifice.”

If she says anything more, the words are lost behind a high-pitched noise. It grows louder and louder, until Alex turns concerned eyes on him and he realizes it’s him. He’s keening like an injured animal, but as much as he wants to, he finds he can’t stop.

Is it her dream or his?

Is it _her_ dream or _his_?

Has he been picking up on her insomnia-fueled nightmares? Or is she--somehow--picking up on his own nightmarish visions? 

His eyes are closed, screwed shut, but he can’t remember how they got that way. He doesn’t remember Alex coming to him, dropping to her knees next to him, pulling him into an embrace. But her arms are around his shoulders and he doesn’t shrink back until one of her hands tangles in his hair.

She doesn’t let him go far, but her hands remain on his back, nowhere near his scalp. “Strand, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

It would be so easy to tell her. She already suspects the truth. She already _believes_ in the phenomena the Black Tapes have introduced her to. It would be so _simple_ to finally let go of the secrets he’s been holding in as long as he can remember.

He shakes his head, choking on an apology. 

“I don’t understand,” she says.

They’re rocking back and forth, back and forth. He swallows and buries his face in the crook of her shoulder. His arms wrap around her, tight, too tight, but she doesn’t complain. “I don’t want you to,” he whispers. “I can’t lose you to this, too.”

The coffee machine sputters the last few drops into the pot, but neither Alex nor Strand moves from the kitchen floor. Not until the first light of dawn struggles through the windows.


	68. "You didn't have to ask."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for 2x11.

Strand is...quiet. It’s unnerving. 

Back in the van, his eyes had never left Coralee. Now that she’s gone, now that she’s left once again, he looks lost, like he isn’t sure where he should be looking without her. Not that there is much to look at in the hotel room they are now sharing. 

Their homes are no longer safe. The PNWS offices are no longer safe. They are essentially hiding and Alex has no idea why.

And getting answers out of Strand has been like pulling teeth.

“Coralee is the woman you’ve been working with.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve known where she is this whole time?”

There’s a long pause, then a low, “No.”

Alex heaves a frustrated sigh. “Now isn’t really the time to lie to me. Did you know or not?”

He shakes his head. “She got in contact with me. Throw-away email accounts. Burner phone numbers. Nothing I could ever trace back to one location.”

“So, this is the first time you’ve seen her? In almost twenty years?”

“Yes.”

Alex sits down on the bed next to him. The adrenaline had helped keep most of her exhaustion at bay, but now she’s just _tired_. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Strand doesn’t reply. His fingers are worrying at his left hand, where a ring had been placed nearly two decades before. She wonders how long it had been after Coralee’s disappearance that he’d finally slipped off his wedding ring. She wonders if he still has it. She wonders what it means if he does.

“She looked--” Strand stops and sighs. “She looked good, didn’t she?”

_She sounded like herself,_ he’d said to Alex, after listening to the audio found of his missing wife. His eyes had been sad then in a way entirely different than they are now.

Coralee hadn’t just looked _good_. She was self-assured and practically _glowing_ in the heat of the chase. She’d smiled at Alex when their eyes had locked in the rear-view mirror. She’d looked _comfortable_ , even _excited_ , as she’d explained that their lives were now in danger. Coralee hadn’t just looked _good_. She had looked completely in her element. “She did.”

He slides his hands underneath his glasses, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He stays like that for a long moment.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I don’t think I ever really knew her.”

“People change,” she says.

He shakes his head.

“You did,” she argues, thinking about a little boy who it would physically hurt to tell a lie. 

He doesn’t deny it. Neither does he tell her what must have happened to have changed him into the man who sits beside her. They sit in silence for a long time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, eventually. 

“For what?”

“I got you involved in this. I should never have asked for your help.”

She remembers finding him in his office, months ago. _I need your help_ , he’d said. _Please_.

She remembers his quiet admission. _You and I--we have a--_

_Yeah_ , she’d said.

Alex smiles. “You didn’t have to ask. I would have helped you no matter what.”

He surprises her when his hand moves to rest over hers on the bed between them. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she turns her palm over and laces their fingers together.

Strand stares down at their joined hands and murmurs, “Whose life changes?”

He’d asked that same question before. She still has no idea how to answer it. She squeezes his hand.

His lips curl into a small smile. He squeezes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have too many feelings about the last episode.


	69. "I bought you a ticket."

“I bought you a ticket,” she says. She holds up her phone, but the text on the screen is too small for him to see. Probably to show him the receipt for said ticket. Or the ticket itself. 

Strand sets his glasses to the side and rubs at his eyes. They burn after staring at his computer screen for so long. “You didn’t have to.”

“Oh yes I did,” she says, “There is no way you’re missing out on seeing the new Ghostbusters movie.”

"I sat through the original. Was that not enough?"

Alex laughs. "Are you kidding me? C'mon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another drabble. Exactly 100 words. Also, I couldn't help myself. :P


	70. "You're warm."

He sees himself pulling her into his arms. He sees himself bending down to capture her lips with his own, sees unshed tears in her eyes just before they slip closed and she kisses him back. He sees himself holding her tight, like he should have so many years before, never to let her go.

He sees all of these things, _aches_ for them, but knows that none of them shall ever come to pass.

“Hey,” Alex says. She waves her hand in front of his face. From her expression, he thinks she must have been trying to get his attention for the last few minutes. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” he tells her. He’s lost count of how many times he’s told her that same lie.

Her hand moves to rest against his forehead. It moves again to cup the side of his face, then to palm the back of his neck. “You’re warm, but no fever.”

He shrugs her hand away. It’s not _her_ touch that he wants.

The worry line between her eyes deepens. “Are you sure you’re okay? I thought with Coralee coming back, with her staying at your house that--”

Strand rounds on her, suddenly furious. “You thought what? That finding my wife would fix things? That all the pieces would fall back in place? You thought _what_ , Alex?”

She stumbles back half a step and Strand works to unclench his fists. 

He’s not angry with her. His anger, the near-constant fury that simmers just underneath his skin, has always been solely for himself. “I’m sorry.”

Alex shakes her head, understanding clear in her eyes. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. 

He shouldn’t have gotten her involved at all, damn those first eleven calls. Damn him for accepting her request to come back, even after suspecting it wasn’t to take his photograph, but to get a better look at his Black Tapes. Damn him doubly so for asking her to dive even deeper, months after finally pushing her away, knowing that she wouldn’t stop until every one of his secrets was dragged into the light.

He doesn’t deserve her comfort, her compassion. Not after everything she’s been through--all of it, his fault.

He reminds himself, fiercely, that it’s not _her_ touch he wants. Even if the eyes he imagines are expressive brown and not long-familiar hazel. Even if he imagines, each time he looks at her, that if he doesn’t grab her and hold on tight, she’ll be lost to him forever.

It’s _Coralee_ that he wants, _Coralee_ who has always held his heart.

Even if he looks at Coralee--her face, her body, her mannerisms, all familiar, even after nearly twenty years--and all he sees is a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can someone please find me a band-aid for my heart?


	71. "No reason."

Coralee’s hideout looks and feels a lot like Strand’s basement bunker. She’s turned a one-bedroom apartment into some kind of secret lair, complete with computers running complex scripts, maps with more pins than a pincushion, and tables piled high with books with notes scrawled in the margins.

Alex stares, wondering when she’d stepped out of her life as a journalist and into a spy thriller.

Strand stares, but if he’s wondering the same thing, he doesn’t mention it.

“I have to go ditch the van,” Coralee says. She’s quiet, but there’s something in her voice that demands that others listen. “There’s food in the fridge, if you’re hungry. Just don’t go anywhere, okay?”

Alex nods, giving the older woman a weak smile.

Coralee smiles back. Her gaze moves to Strand, but he has his back to her, still taking in his surroundings. Her eyes lower when he doesn’t acknowledge her, but she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders decisively. 

The door clicks shut and with a rattle of the key in the lock, she’s gone.

Strand deflates as soon as the sound of his wife’s footsteps echo into silence. 

It was one thing to talk hypothetically of finding his wife. Coralee had never seemed like she’d wanted to be found. Now Coralee is here, alive and no worse for wear after a life on the run. Alex wants to reach out, to offer him comfort, but she no longer knows if she has the right.

It’s obvious that Coralee still cares for Strand. And it’s evident--at least to Alex--that Strand still cares for Coralee. With so much love between them, the reconciliation between the two is inevitable. Once this is over, once they’re all no longer in danger, once the world is saved and all the pieces fall back into place, Alex has no reason to believe that the couple won’t work out their differences. 

Alex turns her back to Strand, her hands clenched into fists. “So, Coralee...”

She has no idea where she’d meant to go with that, no idea whether she’d meant to voice a question or comment, so she leaves it. She bites her bottom lip, determined not to give into the exhaustion and the fear and the heartbreak that threaten to overwhelm her now that they’ve found a quiet moment.

“Coralee,” Strand says. It’s an agreement of sorts, as if he’d understood what she’d meant to say. 

A long silence stretches on, each lost in their own thoughts.

“What do we do now?” Alex asks, after the same question has circled through her mind without answer.

“We wait,” Strand says. “We can’t do anything until we know more.”

Alex takes another look at the room. With all of this equipment, she wonders how long Coralee has been watching them. Since the beginning? Who else has she been keeping an eye on? Charlie? Her parents? 

Alex sighs. “Do you think she knows?”

His expression gives nothing away. “I don’t know.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

Strand’s eyes search hers. “Do you want me to?”

The answer is a resounding no. She wants to take Strand’s hand and lead him away from this mess. She wants to forget about the shadows and the demons and the conspiracy and lose herself in the warmth of his lips pressed against her own. For the first time in her life, in her career, she wants to run and never look back. But she knows what she wants is not what needs to happen.

She has a responsibility. To her producers, to Nic, to her listeners. To Strand. 

The tears fall from her lashes before she can blink them away.

Strand is by her side then, hands cupping her face. Heedless of the tears, he bends down and kisses both of her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. He lingers there and Alex wonders if this is his goodbye. 

There is nothing of the hunger and passion she knows him capable of. Just the soft, comforting, chaste barely-there pressure of his mouth on hers.

Alex runs her hands up his arms, over his shoulders, and tangles her fingers in his hair. She pulls at the dark strands of it and he hisses into the kiss.

They break away for only a second, long enough only for their gazes to meet, before Alex pulls him down once more.

He meets her half-way and there, _there_ ,is the fire of their earlier encounters. He kisses her with such intensity, with every part of himself that he can’t put into words. He kisses her hot and hard and messy. He kisses her until she starts to feel lightheaded, until--

Until the door opens. Until Coralee stands in the entry, her eyes wide.

Strand freezes, staring at his wife.

Alex pulls herself out of his embrace, her face burning.

Coralee is the first to recover. “I see,” she says, a weak smile pulling at her lips. She nods, as if confirming something with herself, and walks, once more, out of the apartment.

The door slams shut, breaking Strand out of the spell holding him in place. He looks to her, his indecision painfully obvious.

“Go,” Alex says. She takes a step back to keep herself from grabbing onto him.

She has no reason to believe that he could still love her with Coralee back in his life, after all.

He goes. If he looks back at her, Alex doesn’t know. She closes her eyes and just concentrates on breathing until the door slams a second time, until the pounding of Strand’s shoes as he runs after his wife can no longer be heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this chapter out before 2x12 dropped, but there was a tragedy in my family and an ill-timed vacation to Europe. This chapter is a bit of a rule-breaker. No one says the phrase 'no reason,' but it is repeated twice within the text.


	72. "I'll meet you halfway."

“Please,” Alex says. “Please, please, please, _please_.”

Strand gives her an unimpressed look, clearly unaffected by her attempt at puppy-dog eyes. “No.”

Alex huffs and sits back in the passenger seat. Her arms cross for good measure. “C’mon! Pretty please?”

“Alex--”

“What if we compromise?”

Strand frowns, as if the concept is foreign to him. “Compromise?”

“Yeah, you know, I’ll meet you halfway if you meet me halfway?”

Strand considers her offer. But because he can never make anything easy, he asks, “How?”

“I pick the music on the drive up and you can listen to whatever it is you want to listen to on the way back.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “What if I don’t want to listen to anything?”

“Then we’ll sit in silence, or whatever, if that’s what you choose.”

Strand is silent for a long time, his eyes focused on the road. He’s quiet for so long that Alex considers trying to get another ‘please’ in, but just as she opens her mouth, he says, “Fine.”

“Yes! Thank you!”

He doesn’t say anything else as Alex plugs her phone into the auxiliary cable. As the music begins to fill the car, his brows draw down. He glances at her where she sits back against the leather seat, a smug smile on her face.

The tension in his shoulders eases a little. He turns his attention back to the road. “I didn’t know you knew Italian,” he says.

“I don’t.”

“Oh.”

The next song plays on, followed by the next, before Alex breaks the silence. She sighs in pleasure. “I’m going to marry Josh Groban.” 

Strand laughs. “Please give the gentleman my regards.”

Alex grins. “I knew you’d like him. _Everyone_ likes Josh Groban.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry if this chapter sucks. I'm so tired. I'm just so tired.


	73. "Take mine."

Alex sighs. “This is bullshit.” 

“Yes.”

Alex turns to him, arm resting along the back of the sofa. “Say it.”

He looks at her, brows raised in question.

“Say it,” she says. “Say ‘this is bullshit.’”

She’s heard him recite ancient texts, some in languages long dead, but she’s never heard him curse. 

He frowns.

“C’mon, you know you want to. Say it.”

“This is--this is bullshit.” 

Alex laughs. It’s not quite how she imagined it, but it’ll do. “Feel better?”

His eyes spark with amusement before it’s gone again, as quickly as it had come. “No.”

Alex bumps her shoulder into his. “Me neither. Want some more wine? I could definitely go for more wine.”

His laugh is only the barest huff of air. He leans forward and takes his untouched glass and trades it with the empty one in her hand. “Take mine,” he says. “I’ll get another bottle.”

They’ve been doing this every night for the past week. Since that first night that she had spent with him, after Coralee had left. Alex shows up at his door with a bottle of wine and some take out. He gives her a subdued smile and lets her in. They sit and talk and eat and before long the bottle of wine is empty and Strand opens another.

They’ve been doing this every night for the past week, pretending at some kind of normalcy. 

As normal as either of their lives can get, anyway.

As much as Alex tries to be there for him, to offer a metaphorical shoulder to cry on, Strand seems to be stuck. Not that she can blame him. He’d just learned his entire marriage had been built on a lie. Alex understands that he needs time to process, to grieve. But she misses the man she has come to see as _her_ Strand. The one she had met in his office at the Institute, after eleven calls and countless other messages. The one with a quick smile and quicker answers. She even misses the suits and ties, the way he’d stood up straighter, with more authority. She misses the way his eyes sparkled--nothing like the dulled blue she sees today, framed by dark purple smudges. 

Strand returns from the kitchen, holding another bottle. He hands it to her to inspect, as if she knows anything about wine. When she nods, he pours a measure into the empty glass on the table, but doesn’t touch it. He sits down at the end of the sofa, forever putting distance between them, and leans his chin on his hand.

Alex drinks from her own glass, inspecting the dark liquid swirling within. She doesn’t know what to say to him anymore. She’s tried to draw him out, tried to get him to express anything but this muted detachment, but nothing, so far, has worked.

“I can go,” she says, voice hushed in the quiet of his father’s old house. “If you want to be alone.”

“No,” he says, not looking at her. “Stay. Please.”

“Okay,” she says. She sets her wine glass on the table next to his, a matching pair.

He looks at her then and there are volumes locked behind those blue, blue eyes. 

“Okay,” she says again. “I’ll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short, short chapters. Hoping to get back into my groove soon. Thank you again to everyone for sticking with me. I cannot believe I have less than 30 chapters to go, now.


	74. "We can share."

“It’s starting to feel a lot like someone died,” Alex says.

Strand hums and turns another page. The book on his lap is heavy and old, with faded gilded pages and the title long rubbed away.

“I mean, she didn’t die. She’s just _gone_.”

“Some might argue that one is remarkably like the other.” Strand doesn’t look up from his book.

Alex sighs. “I know. You’re still grieving her loss. And that’s okay! It’s just--it’s quieter here, than it usually is. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Alex stares at him, willing him to express any of the roiling emotions she can see in his eyes.

He doesn’t, of course. Doesn’t even look up, his eyes still moving across the pages of his book. As if he can just _read_ all of his problems away.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call your sister? Charlie? I’m sure they would come if you asked.”

“No. I don’t want them involved.”

Alex slumps back into the cushions of the sofa. She doesn’t understand his need to push his family away. Alex would have retreated into her mother’s arms, given she were in the same situation. Surround herself with friends, even. To insist that his sister, even his own daughter, stay away when they could offer comfort isn’t something that makes sense to her.

“Are you sure you--”

He looks up, finally, with a sharp look. The effect is ruined when he has to readjust his glasses. “Alex,” he says, and it sounds like a warning.

“--don’t have the one million dollar prize money?”

The abrupt change in subject manages to pull a reaction out of him, even if it is a raise of his eyebrows and a soft snort of laughter.

Alex just smiles at him.

“Quite sure,” he says.

“Because the way I see it, we’re on the right track of definitively proving the existence of the paranormal and--”

A flash of something goes through his eyes, before he hides it by studying the book in his lap. His fingers trace the edges of the hardbound cover. “Is that why you’re here? To claim the prize money?”

Alex’s smile falters and then falls. That hadn’t been the reaction she had been hoping for. Perhaps a quiet chuckle. Or the familiar rant on the burden of proof and the scientifically impossible. Not the quiet acceptance of what would certainly amount to another betrayal in his life. “Richard, no.”

Strand chances a glance at her. He sighs and rolls his shoulders, forcing some of the tension out of them.

She doesn’t blame him for jumping to conclusions, but she can see that he’s blaming himself enough for the both of them. 

He opens his mouth, but before he can get anything out, particularly an apology, Alex says, “We can share, anyway.”

“What?”

“The prize. We can share it. You’re as much a part of this as I am.”

It takes him a moment, but his lips quirk up in a wry smile. “I’m not sure I can win my own prize.”

“Why not? If _you_ \--of all people, Alpha Skeptic Extraordinaire--find the evidence, I think you deserve it. Plus, isn’t Ruby basically running the place while you’re gone? I bet she wouldn’t have any trouble awarding you with it.”

He laughs, and for the first time in a long time, it feels real, like there is actual humor behind it. “No trouble at all.”

As quickly as the humor had come, it’s gone, replaced by a far away look. If he were a cartoon character, Alex might have seen a lightbulb go off above his head.

“What?” Alex asks.

“Interesting,” he says.

“ _What_? What’s interesting?”

He flips the book on his lap shut and places it on the arm of the chair. When he looks at her, there is a gleam in his eyes, a gleam she hasn’t seen since they went to speak with Father Vincent, since Strand’s desire to ‘solve’ the Black Tapes cases had been reawakened the first time, over a year ago. “Perhaps we’ve been looking at these cases the wrong way. Perhaps…”

He trails off with a flash of teeth--the closest she’s ever seen him giving a full-fledged grin. He stands and it’s all Alex can do to keep up with him as he makes his way to the door to his basement bunker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm supposed to be working on a different project, but i was feeling good today and decided to make good use of it and give you guys an update. okay, friends, i love you, see you next chapter.


	75. "I was just thinking about you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the pictures posted on Twitter of the party at Casa Bae. :)

Alex reaches over her desk and picks up the phone receiver. She dials a long familiar number, tapping her fingers on her desk as she waits for the call to be picked up. 

She half expects to hear the polite, yet informative voice telling her that she’s reached the Strand Institute. Instead, she is pleasantly surprised to hear a low grumble on the other end. “Hello.”

Alex switches the receiver to her other ear so she can comfortably balance it between her chin and shoulder. “Hey, Dr. Strand.”

The voice changes, becomes warmer, more welcoming. “Alex. I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?” Alex is suddenly quite glad that Strand isn’t in the room with her. She can feel her blush spread all the way to the tips of her ears.

Get it together, Reagan.

Strand coughs. “Thinking of you. Of calling you.”

Alex laughs softly. Sometimes she can just _see_ the little boy he must have been--quiet, maybe a little shy.

“What did you need?” she asks. “Find anything in your father’s journal?”

“Not very much, I’m afraid. Deciphering it has been a slow process.” He pauses. “Is that why you called?”

“No, actually. Paul is having a party at Casa Bae--”

Strand starts to make a noise of dissent, but Alex cuts him off.

“It’s going to be small. Just the people involved in The Black Tapes. Maybe a few Nic knows from working on Tanis.”

“Is--” Strand hesitates, and Alex wonders if he’s attempting to find the most polite way to turn down her invitation. “Will your intern be there?”

Alex knows exactly which intern Strand is referring to. It hadn’t been long after they’d hired their newest, most _enthusiastic_ intern that Alex and Nic had noticed that she may have a bit of a crush on Strand. Alex happens to find it adorable, but she doesn’t fault Strand for being uncomfortable around the younger woman. “Yeah. Sorry. I can have a talk with her.”

“I would appreciate it.”

Alex jots down a note on a nearby pad of yellow sticky notes. “I’ll see what I can do. So, will you come?”

“I suppose I could make an appearance.”

Alex smiles. “Good, because I sort of already RSVP’d for you.”

“Alex--”

Before he can complain, Alex says, “Okay, well, I guess I’ll let you get back to Howard’s journal. Let me know if you find anything. Dress code casual. I’ll have my people call your people. Okay, goodbye!”

Alex hangs up to what sounds suspiciously like a squawk of protest. She makes another note to call Ruby with the details of Paul’s party. And then another, reminding her to talk to Nic.

He owes her ten bucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. But, hey, an update!


	76. "I want you to have this."

“Hey,” Alex says, descending the stairs into Strand’s basement.

Strand looks up from his computer, a smile tugging at his lips when he sees her. “Alex.”

She smiles back, unable to help but feel a little shy. It’s been days since their ordeal--since Coralee rescued them from the people with guns, since Coralee had gone, since Alex had spent the night with Strand. Since their kiss.

She’d glossed over their time together during her narration. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said that they talked all night. Not exactly. She had just chosen to leave certain key parts out.

She can still see it if she closes her eyes. Sitting together, glasses of scotch on the table in front of them. She doesn’t know how they’d managed to be sitting so close, not after they’d both begun on opposite sides of the sofa, but she can still remember the way he’d glanced down, his eyes catching on her lips. She can still remember the way his tongue darted out to wet his own, the way his head had tilted just so, the way he’d tasted when their lips finally met.

She’s not sure who initiated it, exactly, but she does know that it’s sweet and gentle and not at all the way Alex imagined it would be. She had let it go on, her hand cupping his jaw, before she’d pulled away. “We shouldn’t. You just lost your wife--again. And there’s the podcast. Not to mention--”

He’d quieted her with the soft press of his lips against her own. It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Strand had sats back against the sofa, had taken a sip of his drink. He hadn’t looked hurt or upset or any of the other myriad of emotions she knows runs so deep within him. Instead, he’d smiled his crooked smile and had huffed out a short breath of laughter. “Okay.”

“That’s not to say that I don’t want to--I do. It’s just--after? When this is all said and done?”

“I’d like that.”

The night had gone on pleasantly enough after that, the phantom feel of Strand’s lips tingling for hours afterwards. They haven’t spoken of it since, but there has been definitely something _different_ between them. Strand seems--not softer, but more relaxed, like a weight he’d been carrying for years had been lifted from his shoulders. 

In a way, she supposes, it has. After finally learning the real fate of Coralee, he can finally put that chapter of his life behind him. 

He also smiles more genuinely, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes him appear years younger. When he turns it on her, Alex can’t help but understand how Coralee had fallen in love with him.

“I got your call. What did you want to discuss?”

Strand closes the lid of laptop and stands. He moves toward one of the filing cabinets containing copies of documents that have not yet been digitized, most of it found amongst Howard Strand’s things. Sliding the topmost drawer open, he reaches in and pulls out a book.

Or, as she sees once he holds it out to her, a journal.

“I want you to have this,” Strand says.

“I can’t,” she protests. “Have you even read it yet?”

“No.”

Alex gives him an incredulous look. She figured he would have poured over it as soon as he possibly could. “Then I _really_ can’t take it. Don’t you want to know what it says?”

“I do. But not from him.”

Alex shakes her head. “You can’t keep letting him affect you. He’s been gone for nearly twenty years. You have to let it go.”

Strand smiles and she can already feel her argument giving way. “I am. I’ve been way too close to this, letting it cloud my judgement. So, I’m taking a step back. If there is anything important in that journal, I trust that you’ll tell me.”

Their hands brush when Alex finally reaches out to take the journal from him. They linger, both caught up by even this small point of contact, both staring into the other’s eyes. She imagines that the longing she sees in his is mirrored in her own. “I will,” she says. “You’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you,” he says. 

Shaking his head, dispelling the moment, his fingers finally leave hers. He takes a step back, as much a physical reminder as a mental one that there is still so much to do before this thing between them can be realized.


	77. "Call me, if you need anything."

Alex is drunk.

She’s _very_ drunk.

She stumbles a little on her way across the room. Her knees have gone numb and she thinks it may be a miracle that she hasn’t fallen over yet.

She’s not really sure she could pick herself back up, if she did.

The thought makes her grin. She’s aware, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it’s a very drunk kind of grin, stretched too wide and full of too many teeth.

As her intern might say, Alex is officially Hashtag White Girl Wasted.

That thought only makes her smile more.

Finally, she spots Strand. Most of the guests at Paul’s Not-Quite-Halloween Party are outside on the deck, taking advantage of the cool weather and the bonfire burning in the firepit. Not Strand, though. No, he’d gone inside almost an hour before, claiming that he’d needed to make a call. Now, he sits in one of Paul’s leather armchairs, his legs crossed loosely with his ankle over his knee, nursing a glass of what she assumes is whiskey.

“Whatcha doin’ in here?” Alex asks. She sits down on the arm of his chair and delights in the fact that she finally gets to look down at him.

She has the strangest urge to tousle his hair, to run her fingers through it and see if it’s just as soft as it looks. She only just manages to keep her hands to herself, taking another long pull of beer.

A self-depreciating smile tugs at one corner of his lips. “I’ve never been much for parties. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts.”

“Not a lot goin’ on out there, anyways. I think Nic’s been tryin’ to make s’mores, but his marshmallows keep catchin’ fire. Everyone’s takin’ bets on how long before he sets himself on fire.”

Strand laughs into his drink, before taking a sip.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, sitting side-by-side. Alex finishes off her beer and places the bottle down on the floor. Strand mostly stares into his drink, as if the secrets of the universe can be found in the amber liquid.

“You don’t have to stay inside with me,” Strand says, a few minutes later.

“Naw, s’fine. I like spendin’ time with you.”

Strand looks up at her, his expression a little surprised, but pleased. 

All Alex can see, however, are his cool blue eyes. The color reminds her of glaciers, the kind they explore the insides of on the Discovery Channel. “You have the prettiest blue eyes.”

This startles a laugh out of him. “Ah--you’re drunk.”

Alex grins. “ _Very_ drunk.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you truly inebriated.” 

Alex sighs, her happy buzz immediately dampened as she remembers why she’d started drinking in the first place. Leaning her head against the back of the chair, she says, “Haven’t been sleepin’ much. Started to see things outta the corner of my eyes. Turns out, you can’t drink them away, but you _can_ make ‘em spin with the rest of the world. _Way_ more fun that way.”

She doesn’t mention that it’s way less scary, as well. She doesn’t want to hear the A-word again, especially not in reference to this.

She _knows_ that it’s all in her head.

But Simon Reese’s last phone call had really shaken her up. She can’t help that her imagination runs wild, every time she catches a glimpse of the hooded figures or sees a body hanging from the rafters. She automatically jumps back to that conversation, about darkness and demons and an unavoidable apocalypse that she may have inadvertently started. 

“That’s...actually rather alarming.”

Alex laughs, she can’t help it. Alarming is probably the tamest way she could possibly describe it.

“You said you were seeing a therapist. Have you told her about this?”

Alex rolls her eyes. “Dr. Bernier ’s useless. Plus, she stares at me like I’ve disappointed her on a personal level. I just can’t handle that kinda pressure.”

Strand’s lips press together in a frown. “I see.”

She bumps her arm into his shoulder. She feels bad for effectively ruining their little moment of peace and quiet. “Wanna go back to the party?”

Strand shakes his head. “No, but you may.”

She frowns. The prospect of going back out onto the deck without him doesn’t appeal to her. Once she steps out of the door, she’ll have to pretend that everything is fine, that she isn’t breaking into pieces faster than she can duct tape them back together.

“Actually,” she says, “can you give me a ride home? I’d ask Nic, but I’ve gotta feelin’ that he’s gonna go home with Geoff.”

“Is he also ‘very drunk?’”

“Well, I’m sure that’ll be his excuse, but we all know they’re going to hook up.”

Strand chokes on a sip of his drink. “I beg your pardon?”

Alex laughs. “What, you didn’t know that they’re involved? Geoff, at least, is not exactly subtle.”

“As friends, I thought. But, now that you mention it, it does seem rather obvious.” Strand tosses back the rest of his drink and places his glass next to her bottle. “Would you like to leave now?”

“Yeah, just let me get my coat.”

She tries to hop down from her perch on the arm of the chair, but she overbalances and ends up toppling to the floor.

Strand is there, helping her up with an arm around her waist, in an instant. He sits her down in the armchair and gives her a once over, as if inspecting her for injury. “Are you alright?”

“Just a little dizzy.”

He leaves then, without a word, disappearing down the hall. 

Alex wonders, for a brief, drunk moment, whether he’s angry with her. But then he returns, carrying her coat over his arm.

He holds it out for her while Alex shrugs into it. 

“Ready?” he asks.

Alex nods and then startles at the sudden warmth at her lower back, noticeable even through the fabric of her coat. She looks up to see Strand, standing closer than she’d realized.

“You were swaying,” he says. 

“Oh. I can’t really feel my knees.”

His brow furrows and he glances down, as if to check that he hadn’t missed anything major after her fall. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah. S’just a drunk thing.”

“I see,” he says, but it’s very obvious that he doesn’t.

He guides her out of the house and down to his car. He even opens the door for her, waiting for her to settle safely in the seat, helping her to find the buckle, before he closes the door and moves around the car to the driver’s side.

The drive back to her apartment is quiet. Strand lets Alex pick the radio station and it plays softly, just loud enough to cover the road noises and sound of traffic. She leans against the door, half watching him as he drives. 

He helps her out of the car, too. Again he places his hand at the small of her back and this time, Alex leans into it, trusting him not to let her fall.

“Wanna come in?” she asks, fumbling her keys before she can get them into the lock.

“I shouldn’t,” he says. “Try to get some sleep, Alex.”

She can’t help the sardonic edge to her smile. “Easier said than done.”

His hand comes up, hesitating for just a second before his thumb brushes along her cheekbone, before he’s cupping the side of her face. For a moment, Alex thinks he’s going to kiss her, but he just smiles and says, “Call me, if you need anything.”

With that, he leaves her to stumble into her apartment. 

She manages to pull on an oversized T-shirt before crawling into bed. She takes comfort in the fact that even though the world feels as if it’s spinning around her, she can’t see anything in the darkness of her room. 

Wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, it’s easy enough for her to let the alcohol in her system lull her to sleep.

A few short hours later, Alex wakes with a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what, two chapters? ~in one day~?


	78. "Do you want to come too?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna just leave the last chapter as it was, but after a lovely request left in the comments, here is the second part. If you haven't read the last chapter, you may want to take a moment and go back before reading this one.

Without thinking, Alex reaches for her phone.

Strand picks up on the first ring. “Alex.”

“Please,” she says, vaguely aware that her whole body is shaking, “please, make them go away.”

“They aren’t real, Alex. What you’re seeing is a product of sleep deprivation.”

The hooded figures are standing around her bed. She can see their outlines against the rest of the darkness of her room. They’re staring at her, surrounding her. “I know that! Don’t you think I know that?”

There is silence on the other line. Then, “Give me ten minutes.”

While it doesn’t dispel her fear, relief washes through her. Strand is coming. She can hold herself together for ten minutes. “Okay,” she says. “Ten minutes.”

After he disconnects, Alex pulls her comforter over her head and squeezes her eyes shut tight. Even so, she can still feel phantom eyes on her, even through the fabric.

She starts to feel silly about five minutes in. She’s not a child, yet here she is, hiding from the monsters her sleepless mind has hallucinated into existence. Even if she were to see the figures, they can’t hurt her. And she must have dragged Strand out of his own bed to come check on her. Only to, what, check her closets like he must have done for Charlie? What must he think of her?

By the time she hears the knock on her front door, Alex has already berated herself several times over. She feels humiliated. She wants to just stay under her blankets and pretend that she never called Dr. Richard Strand, professional skeptic with two doctorates from Ivy League schools, to her bedside in a fit of hysterics.

But she can’t do that because, like it or not, she is an adult and she has to face her problems head on. Like she should have, before she’d called Strand.

“Stupid,” she mutters to herself, “stupid, stupid.”

The figures aren’t there when she emerges from her nest of blankets. Sighing, Alex swings her legs onto the floor and goes to answer the door.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that comes out of her mouth. “I shouldn’t have--”

The rest of her apology is lost when she sees him.

He’s wearing _sweatpants_. And a Yale T-shirt--without a flannel, this time. She thinks it might be the first time she’s ever seen his bare arms.

“Hi,” she finishes, wincing at her own lack of eloquence. 

“Hello,” he says. He’s looking at her, his crystalline blue eyes full of concern. “Are you alright?”

Alex sighs and swings the door wider, gesturing for him to enter. “I’m fine. Can I interest you in some coffee?”

“No, thank you. Are you sure that you’re okay? You sounded--”

“I know,” Alex says, cutting him off, embarrassed. “I’m an idiot and I panicked. I shouldn’t dragged you out of bed like this.”

Strand frowns and then looks away. “It’s fine. I wasn’t asleep.”

Alex colors, her eyes going wide. She’d assumed that he’d been asleep before she called, but now it occurs to her that he didn’t sound as if he’d been sleeping when he’d picked up. “Shit. Did you have...company?”

Strand blinks. “What?”

“Did I interrupt--”

“ _No_.”

Alex isn’t expecting the vehemence behind his answer. By the look of chagrin that crosses his face, Strand hadn’t expected it either. “You didn’t interrupt anything. I was alone.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence descends upon them. Alex shuffles from foot to foot as the seconds drag on, feeling miserable. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again. It’s all she can think to say.

Strand shakes his head. “You stayed with me. Before.”

Some of the weight on Alex’s chest lifts. “You wouldn’t mind? Staying?”

“Of course not.” 

There’s nothing but sincerity in those three little words. The rest of the weight falls away, allowing Alex to breath easily for the first time since she awoke. “Thank you.”

They sit and talk, Alex curled up in her favorite armchair while Strand relaxes on her sofa. He looks so natural, so in his element sitting there in his pajamas that Alex has to remind herself that he’s never been inside of her apartment before. They talk for hours, without any sign of the hooded figures or corpses swinging from her ceiling. They talk until Alex’s eyes start to droop, until she begins to lose the threads of their conversation.

“You should go back to bed,” Strand says. He’s standing over her, having moved sometime in the space of her blinking.

“Mm,” Alex says, letting him help her up, much as he had done at the party earlier. “Do you want to come too?”

Strand freezes.

It takes Alex a moment to realize what she’d just said, but somewhere in her half-asleep state, it makes perfect sense. “You haven’t slept. And I haven’t seen anything while you’ve been here.”

Strand doesn’t answer. She can see the wheels turning in his head, though, and takes that to be a good sign. 

“At least take the couch.”

Her sofa won’t exactly be a comfortable fit, but at least she won’t have to blame herself for him not having slept.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You aren’t. C’mon.” 

Taking his hand, Strand surprises her when he follows her back to her room.

Alex has to shake out her comforter from the tangled mess that she’d left it in. She pulls it back and climbs in, watching expectantly as Strand hangs back.

Then, hesitantly, he asks, “Do you want the door closed?”

“You can leave it open a crack.”

He does so, surprising Alex again when he doesn’t leave beforehand. Instead, he picks his way through her room in the darkness, finding his way to the opposite side of her bed. Alex pulls the comforter down for him, not allowing him to even think about doing something galant, like sleep on top of the blanket.

“Can you--” Alex starts, but then stops, her cheeks burning. “Would you--?”

Strand turns on his side. Reaching out, he brushes a stray lock of hair from her face. “Yes?” 

It’s that simple contact that makes up her mind for her. “Can you hold me? Please?”

He’s warm, when he pulls her into his arms. She settles with her cheek pressed against his chest, his face buried in the hair at the top of her head. 

This time, when Alex falls asleep, she doesn’t wake up until the sun is streaming in through her curtains. She’s still wrapped up in Strand’s embrace.

She sighs, content to see his features smoothed out by sleep. Letting her eyes slip closed, Alex goes back to sleep.


	79. "I'll still be here when you're ready."

Alex has been waiting in the lobby of their hotel for over ten minutes.

In all the time Alex has known him, she’s discovered that Strand is _nothing_ if not punctual. He arrives at least fifteen minutes early to every engagement. For him to be even one minute late is concerning. After ten, Alex has started to become full-on worried.

Her text messages go unanswered.

When she calls him, the phone rings until the pre-recorded ‘Hello, you’ve reached the Strand Institute’ message plays. Alex hangs up without leaving a message.

After fifteen minutes has gone by, Alex abandons her post by the elevator and makes her way back to their rooms.

There is the sound of movement after she knocks at his door--feet shuffling on carpet and then the door swings open.

“You look like a wreck.” 

Strand blinks owlishly at her. He’s still wearing what he’d gone to bed in--plaid pajama pants and a heathered grey T-shirt. His hair is sticking up in some places, flattened in others, as if he’d spent the whole night tossing and turning. By the dark circles smudged under his eyes, Alex expects that that’s exactly what happened. 

“Alex?” he asks, his already deep voice gravelly with sleep.

“Hey. You were supposed to meet me,” Alex checks her watch, “nearly twenty minutes ago. Are you okay?”

He blinks again, slow and unfocused. Alex isn’t sure if the far-away look in his eyes is because he’s not wearing his glasses or because he’s still not all the way awake. “‘M fine.”

“You don’t really look fine.”

He shakes his head. “I had a dream.”

“What? C’mon, we don’t want to miss our ferry,” she says, pushing past him into his room. She finds his overnight bag and shoves it into his arms. Then, when he doesn’t move, she takes him by the arms and turns him around, encouraging him to take steps toward the bathroom. “Go and get dressed. I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

Strand hadn’t brought much with him, so it doesn’t take Alex long to gather his things, ready to be packed as soon as he emerges from the bathroom.

When he does--hair smoothed down, wearing a customary suit, smelling faintly of mint--he still looks awful. But they don’t have time for Alex to drag the answer out of him. They still need to check out before they have to catch their ferry. 

Strand pats his pockets and looks around the room. 

“Your wallet is here.”

Finally, once his shoes are on and his bag is fully packed, they make their way back to the elevator. Even with his long legs, Strand hangs back, walking several paces behind her. His eyes trace the hallway, like he’s taking it in for the first time. Several times, Alex looks back, worried. “Are you sure you’re not getting sick?”

“Hm?”

They stop at the elevator and, after pressing the button, Alex turns to really look at Strand. She swears, for a short moment, he has no idea who she is. It’s just a fraction of a second, really, but still, Alex catches the flicker of confusion that passes through his eyes.

She ushers him into the empty elevator car and presses the button for the lobby. 

Rising onto her toes, Alex presses the back of her hand against his forehead. His skin is cool, if not clammy. “You don’t feel warm,” she says.

He just _blinks_ at her.

Then, just as he had in the room, he pats down his pockets. “Something is missing.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t leave anything back in the room. I checked.”

“Not in the room.”

“Then, where? We didn’t go anywhere last night, remember? We ordered in.”

Strand frowns. “I don’t know.”

The elevator door opens. Alex guides him through the family waiting to enter and toward the small dining area. Coffee and bagels are easy enough to procure. She wraps the bagels in a couple of napkins and then heads for the front desk, Strand in tow.

They make it to the ferry in time, with just minutes to spare. Alex hands Strand a bagel, hoping that food might help whatever is wrong with him.

It does, bringing a little color to his face. And his eyes seem a little brighter after a few sips of coffee.

“Rough night?” she asks.

“You could say that.”

“You said you had a dream. Care to share?”

He gives her a sideways glance. “Are you recording?”

“Not unless my recorder is hiding inside this bagel.”

His expression tells her that he might not have trouble believing that, at all. 

She deserves it, really, after some of the life choices she’s made recently. She tears off a bit of bagel, partly to show him that her recorder is not stuffed inside her breakfast, but also because she’s _starving_. 

“I was under water. Trapped, but not drowning. Waiting for something.”

“Just waiting?”

He nods.

“Sounds terrible.”

He takes a sip of his coffee by way of answer. Alex knows that something is still off when he doesn’t make a face at the taste. She hadn’t had time to put sugar or milk into it and Strand doesn’t normally drink his coffee black.

“Did you lose something?” he asks.

Alex checks her own pockets, humoring him. “Nope. Still feel like something is missing?”

“It’s just a--it’s nothing.”

Whatever it is, it gets lost in the flurry of activity after they discover that their cars have been broken into. The whole incident is forgotten after hours of sitting in the police station writing reports.

Alex doesn’t even think of it again until months later, when little Richie Strand’s friend mentions a strange dream--a dream that would lead him and his group of friends to the body of a boy by a river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dunno about ya'll, but i still just really really really really love the idea of strand being psychic


	80. "Is your seatbelt on?"

The call comes just before lunch.

The buzzing of Strand’s phone against the table startles her. Easily enough done considering the book Strand had given her on possession. Turns out, even the psychology behind the phenomenon--meant, she assumes, to put her at ease--is terrifying.

Strand crosses the room, back to the table. He’d been standing in front of one of the filing cabinets, his fingers brushing through file folders, looking for a document that has yet to be digitized. He frowns down at the phone. He picks it up, hesitates. Then he answers, swiping across the touchscreen with a dubious expression on his face. “Hello.”

He listens. His eyes go wide. “Coralee.”

Alex’s breath catches. She desperately wants to ask what Coralee is doing on the phone after she’d made it clear that neither Strand nor Alex would see her again. But Strand’s back is ramrod straight as he listens to his wife’s voice. His frown is more pronounced. His hand tightens around the phone.

“You’re certain?”

Another pause, shorter this time.

“Yes. Thank you.”

His eyes slip shut. “I will. Goodbye.”

Alex lets him have a moment, after the conversation ends, after Strand slowly pulls the phone away from his ear. He breathes out a heavy sigh and Alex wonders if it’s any easier to have lost her once again, whether saying goodbye makes the pain somehow less to bear. 

When his eyes open again, there is something of a steely edge to them. “We have to go.”

“What?”

“We’re not safe here.”

Alex jumps up from the table, upsetting her book in the process. “I don’t understand. What did Coralee say?”

Strand begins to unplug his laptop. Usually meticulous with his equipment, he doesn’t bother wrapping the cord. He takes all of it underneath his arm and starts up the stairs. Alex slings her messenger bag over her shoulder and pockets her recorder before following.

“Someone is coming,” he explains. His legs are long enough that he practically takes them two at a time. 

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Coralee was unable to ascertain their identity.”

She follows him through the house and up the stairs to the second floor. She’s never gone further than the foot of these stairs. She’s called up to him on occasion, when he’d gone upstairs to look for something, but Alex has tried to leave him with some semblance of privacy. It is his home, after all, even if they do spend hours of research here. Even if he continues to call it his father’s house, as if he hasn’t lived here for months. When he doesn’t insist that she stay behind, however, Alex takes that as permission to continue at his heels.

“I take it that whoever it is doesn’t have our best interests at heart?”

“Hardly,” Strand says.

He enters one of the rooms. Alex hangs back, realizing with a quick glance that it must be his bedroom.

The walls are bare. So are each of the bedside tables. A dresser, the only furniture along one wall, is also clear. No clutter. No nicknacks. No decorative accent pieces. There are thick, solid curtains over each of the windows. The bed is made with a simple blue comforter and two pillows. Alex realizes that Strand must not have allowed Ruby to outfit this room. She wonders how he can sleep with the blank, white walls pressing in on him at night. Wonders how he stumbles into bed without the help of even a lamp.

Alex watches from the doorway as he disappears into what she assumes must be a closet, returning with the duffle bag she recognizes from a few of their overnight trips. He places the laptop into it first, then goes to the dresser and begins to pack articles of clothing into it by the handful. 

Finally, he zips the bag and hefts it over his shoulder. “We may still have time to stop at your apartment.”

“I have a bug-out bag in my trunk.”

Strand throws her a look of disbelief.

“Shut up. It’s just a few changes of clothes and some toiletries. It’s not that weird.”

It _isn’t_ that weird. As a journalist, she never knows when she’ll get a call about a break in a case. She likes to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.

Strand shakes his head. “Coralee sent an address to my phone. Another safe house.”

He shifts the strap of his bag, then breezes out of the room. He waits for Alex to exit before shutting the door behind her. This time, he gestures for her to go before him down the stairs. 

He barely takes the time to lock the front door. As he slides the key into the lock, he tells her, “Go get your bag. I’ll start the car.” He glances at his watch. There is worry is his clear blue eyes when his gaze meets hers. “Hurry.”

Alex pops her trunk as she runs down the driveway. The backpack is tucked in a corner and she nearly has to climb into the trunk to reach it. When she pulls it out and closes the trunk, she catches a vehicle speeding around the bend, tires squealing in protest. 

Strand reaches over and pushes the passenger side door open, so all Alex has to do is hop in. She slams the door shut. “Go, go, go.”

Without needing any further encouragement, Strand peels out of the driveway. He throws the car into drive. Alex swears she sees the pedal hit the floor. 

_Zero to sixty in less than a minute_ , she thinks. 

There’s a bubble of hysteria floating in her chest, ready to burst if she lets it.

How did her life come to this? To demonic possessions and satanic monks, to creepy kids and their shadow friends, to a car chase? It’s like she stepped out of her job as a journalist and straight into some kind of horror movie.

“How do we lose them?” Alex asks. She twists in her seat to look through the rear window, where a black SUV is quickly gaining ground.

Strand’s mouth flattens into a tense line. “Is your seatbelt on?”

She hadn’t had time when she’d first got in the car. Now, she rights herself, sitting forward, and clicks her seatbelt into place. “That didn’t exactly answer my question.”

“Hold on,” Strand says.

He slams on the breaks. Alex pitches forward. And then sideways as Strand’s hands pass one over the other on the steering wheel. 

When they come to a stop, they’re facing the other direction. The SUV, unable to stop in time, drives off of the side of the road at the last second.

Strand doesn’t even give Alex a second to breathe before he’s accelerating again. They rocket back down the road, in the direction the SUV had first come, passing Strand’s house. Alex grabs onto the handle above her, digging her heels in unconsciously as Strand takes the bend at a speed that threatens to flip the car.

Alex keeps looking behind her, waiting for the SUV to reappear. When they make it to the highway without any sign of it, Alex sits back in her seat. Her heart is still hammering in her chest. “Where the hell did you learn how to drive like that?”

Strand shoots her a serene smile.

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Be enigmatic. See if I care.”

He’d thrown his phone into one of the cup holders. Without taking his eyes off the road, he picks it up and hands it to her. “The address should be there. Can you navigate?”

Alex plugs the address into Google Maps. “It’s three hours away.”

Strand nods.

“And what are we supposed to do when we get there? Wait?”

He nods again. “Coralee said that she would handle the situation.”

Alex stares. Strand is gripping the wheel, hard. His knuckles have gone white. “‘Handle the situation.’ Why do I have the feeling that doesn’t mean call the police and let them deal with it?”

Strand’s eyes, when they meet hers, are full of a resolve she’s not yet seen from him. Mixed with it, like a stormy blend of oil paints on a pallette, is fear. Fear for himself and Alex, fear for Coralee, and--perhaps--fear for what his long, lost wife might be capable of.


	81. "Sweet dreams."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. As requested, here is Alex & Strand In A Safehouse. If you have no idea how they got there, please go back to the previous chapter to find out.

The safe house Coralee sends them to is vastly different from the last. Instead of something listed on Airbnb, this house is old. When Strand pulls up, Alex can’t help but wonder how many years this particular house has been considered safe.

Frankly, it looks like it’s falling apart. Shingles are missing from the roof. The yard is overgrown. What were perhaps flowering bushes are now strangled brown skeletons. The front window has been boarded over, the plywood tagged with graffiti. 

The screen door sticks when Strand attempts to open it. The front door, however, opens on well-oiled hinges.

They both glance at the other before going in.

Alex stops in her tracks and stares.

She’d imagined that the interior of the house would match the exterior. This is not the case. The paint is unblemished, decorated with tasteful pieces of art. The furnishings are not layered in dust, but clean and updated. The tile floor shines as Strand flips on the overhead light.

Strand remains unaffected by the sight. He’s either not surprised or too tired after the drive to care. He drops his duffel bag on the floor next to the door, kicks off his shoes, and pads through the house on socked feet. 

Alex follows his lead, stepping out of her flats. She sets her backpack down on the sofa and wanders in the direction Strand had gone.

The kitchen, it turns out, has been fully stocked with food. Not just non-perishables, though there are plenty of cans of soups and vegetables. There is a loaf of bread on the counter, milk in the fridge, a carton of eggs. Strand seems to relax as soon as he finds a box of teabags in the pantry. They are by no means fancy--generic store brand as far as she can tell, but she’s glad to see the line of his shoulders become less rigid, even just a little.

There is, of course, coffee for Alex.

There is only one problem.

“There’s only one bed,” Alex says. She feels stupid saying it. Strand is beside her. He can see that there is only one bed.

“We should sleep in shifts,” Strand says. “We can’t be certain that we weren’t followed.”

“What do we do if we were?”

Strand’s expression turns grim. “What we have to.”

A bolt of fear crackles up Alex’s spine. She shivers. 

This is not how she envisioned her day going. Research at Strand’s house, yes. Afternoon meetings with Nic and her producers, yes. Dinner alone in her apartment, fruitless attempts at sleep in her own bed, yes. Car chases and safe houses and going off the grid for an indeterminant length of time, not so much.

She already misses her phone. She’d had enough time to text Nic, to tell him not to worry, that she and Strand are safe--for the moment--before she’d turned off her phone. Strand had her message Ruby from his phone to the same effect. Coralee, he’d said, would know how to contact them.

“I don’t know about you,” Alex says, once they’ve finished exploring, “but I’m starving.”

She heads into the kitchen. She rummages around through the pantry, pulling out cans of soup. “I’m not much of a cook, but I know my way around a can of Campbell’s. Can you heat up some water for tea?”

The kitchen is small, but they navigate around each other without any problems. Strand sets the table while the kettle sits on the back burner. Alex finds a pot large enough to dump two cans of chicken noodle into and idly stirs it while her stomach protests the wait.

It’s incredibly domestic. It also strikes Alex as something natural, something she could see them doing in his kitchen. Or even her own.

Even sitting across from him at the small table is something they’ve done thousands of times. In his house, at the studio, at various restaurants and cafes. But in this context, there is something different about it. She feels like she could reach out, touch his hand. She could squeeze it in her own, could smile up at him, could meet his cool blue eyes and reassure them both that everything is going to be okay.

Instead, Alex picks up her spoon and starts to eat.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Strand finishes first. He sits back in his chair, holding his mug of tea in both hands, as if to warm them.

Alex gets up, picking up her bowl until Strand stops her with a soft, “I’ll get it.”

At Alex’s questioning glance, he continues. “I’ll clean up. Why don’t you call it an early night?”

It’s barely five o’clock, but Alex feels exhaustion hit her like a wave she didn’t know she’d been holding back. She looks in the direction of the bedroom and then back at Strand. “You’ll wake me in a few hours?”

Strand nods. He takes a sip of tea.

Alex studies him for a moment. She has the distinct feeling that Strand isn’t telling her the whole truth--that he might be considering letting her sleep through the night while he takes watch. 

Either way, her nightmares are pretty reliable. She’ll be up in a few hours with or without his help.

“Sweet dreams,” Strand says.

Alex nods and heads toward the bedroom.

~*~*~

Someone is calling her name. It’s familiar, but far, far away. 

Alex curls more tightly around herself, drawing the comforter up and over her shoulder.

“Alex,” says the voice again. “Wake up.”

She doesn’t want to wake up. For the first time in ages, her sleep has been blissfully demon-free. She wants to hunker down in the quiet, hold tight to it. She doesn’t know when she’ll get the opportunity again.

A hand settles on her shoulder. The thumb moves back and forth in a soothing, gentle caress.

She squints her eyes open. “Richard?”

It’s him, but it’s not him. He’s tall, unnaturally so, towering over her in the darkness. He grins at her, but his face isn’t right. His eyes are where his mouth should be. His mouth is where his eyes should be.

She screams, coming away with a gasp. Hurried footsteps cross the house. They pause in front of the bedroom door. For a nightmare-fueled moment, she thinks she might still be asleep, that she must be caught in some sort of loop, that the figure standing outside the door is just another demon. That she’ll wake up screaming only to do so again and again and again.

The demon knocks, softly calls, “Alex?”

The door cracks open. In the light from the hall, Alex can see that Strand is his usual height. His face is as it should be. He’s frowning, just as he’s been frowning since he first got the call from Coralee. “Is everything--are you alright?”

Alex sits up, shoulders slumping. “Yes, I’m fine. How long was I asleep?”

He glances at his wrist, checking the time on his watch. “A little over an hour. Go back to sleep.”

She sighs. The thought of more sleep is somehow more stressful than the thought that somewhere beyond the walls of their safehouse, someone--some nameless, faceless entity--is out there, looking for them. That they mean to do Alex and Strand harm. 

Alex shimmies back down the mattress, until her head hits the pillow. She huddles underneath the comforter. Strand closes the door, his footsteps retreat back within the house.

Alex closes her eyes, but she knows it will be a fruitless endeavor. She tries to think positively, tries to frame her sleeplessness in a way that wouldn’t make Dr. Bernier frown at her. She _can_ fall asleep. She _will_ fall asleep. Her dreams will be _sweet_ and _peaceful_. 

She spends the next few hours repeating those thoughts to herself like a mantra. Sleep, however, remains just beyond her grasp. She tosses and turns, but it’s not that her body isn’t comfortable. It’s that her thoughts continue to race onward at breakneck speed. 

What if they aren’t safe here?

Who could this nameless, faceless entity be? Why would anyone wish them harm?

Is this her punishment for inadvertently starting the apocalypse?

She’s not even sure she believes in the apocalypse. It’s impossible for her to have personally ushered in an age of darkness, just by playing sound bits over her podcast. But whether she believes in it, academically or not, she still feels a spine-numbing coldness run through her whenever she is reminded of it. She still imagines that the shadows she sees are not natural, that at any moment, they could come to life.

In the end, Alex gives up on sleep. Better to give Strand the chance to get some rest. 

She pads her way through the house. It’s quiet, but by the flickering light cast onto the walls, Alex knows Strand is in the living room. The television in on, the volume at a whisper. There is an open DVD case lying on the coffee table. One, she assumes, from the library of DVDs in the entertainment center. 

“Hey,” she says. She drops down onto the sofa, next to Strand. “What are we watching?”

The movie is in black and white. It’s something she imagines she should know, but Alex has never been one for old movies. 

“The Count of Monte Cristo.” 

They watch until the screen fades to black, as the DVD menu appears, as the short clip plays in a loop. Strand doesn’t ask her about her nightmares, doesn’t urge her to go back to bed. They simply sit in companionable silence.

Strand yawns. His jaw cracks and he winces at the sound.

“Go to bed,” Alex says. “I’ll keep watch.”

He nods, groans as he pushes himself up. He practically shuffles off to the bedroom. She imagines that he sinks down onto the mattress with a sigh, that he pulls the comforter around him like an embrace, hopes that his sleep remains undisturbed, unlike her own. 

Alex puts in another DVD without bothering to look at the title. She double checks that the front door is still locked while the previews play, advertising movies that have long since premiered in theaters. 

She spends the rest of the night on the couch, her legs hugged to her chest, her ears perked for any sign of movement outside the house.


	82. "I was in the neighborhood."

“What do you think?” Alex asks. She grins, twirls around with both arms outstretched.

“Highly inaccurate, for one,” Strand says. “What are you doing here, Alex?”

Alex pouts, her big brown eyes looking up at him through long lashes. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Strand crosses his arms. He leans against the doorjamb. “In the neighborhood,” he repeats.

“Well, no. Not exactly.”

He cocks a brow. A smile tugs at his lips. “Not exactly?”

“Okay, not at all. Happy?”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I wanted to show off my costume. I can’t believe you called it ‘highly inaccurate.’”

She’s wearing a white dress. A pair of feathered wings protrude from her back. There’s a tinsel tiara pinned into her hair, serving as--he supposes--a halo.

He spares her the lecture, doesn’t go into the depictions of angels he remembers from scripture. Too many eyes, several pairs of wings, no faces, in some cases, the heads of animals, in others. “A soldier in the garrison of God would not wear tinsel in their hair.”

Alex grins, sits down on one of the chairs Ruby has added to the porch. “Okay, so what would a soldier in the garrison of God wear?”

Strand straightens. He closes the door behind him. He sits in the chair next to Alex. “If such a being did exist--”

Alex snorts. 

Strand stares at her, expectant. It’s an expression he quickly learned to be effective when dealing with uncooperative students.

Alex rolls her eyes. “Sorry, sorry. Continue.”

“If such a being did exist, and this being had the same human need to don human-like garments, armour, one would suppose.”

“So, no tinsel?”

Strand shakes his head. The smile pulling at his lips widens, curling up on side. “No tinsel.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Alex says.

They sit in comfortable silence. The evening air is cool and crisp. The sky is covered by wispy, grey clouds, swirling lazily in the slight breeze. Strand sits back further in his chair, letting his long legs stretch out before him. 

“It’s going to be Halloween in a few days,” Alex says.

“It is.”

As an investigator of the paranormal, people often assume that Halloween must be his preferred holiday. In truth, Strand much prefers to spend the day as any other. If he’s feeling truly celebratory, he might break open a bottle of scotch as he settles in for the evening in front of his laptop, a word document open as he writes his latest book. 

Ghost stories can be fun, as he’d once explained to the woman sitting beside him. But people don’t need to put on masks to become something they’re not.

He should know.

“Do you have anything planned?” Alex asks.

“Nothing in particular.” He pauses, feeling as if he should say more. “You do, I assume. Hence, the costume.”

Alex shakes her head. She looks over at him, her cheek pressed against the wood of the chair. “Not really.”

“No?”

“I thought, maybe, that if you weren’t doing anything, that we could get a drink?” 

He’s never seen her look nervous, but she bites her lower lip. Uncertainty swims in her eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I just thought--”

“I’d love to,” he says, interrupting her before she can rescind the offer. “I don’t have much in the way of costumes, I’m afraid.”

Alex laughs, all traces of nervousness gone, as if they’d never been. “No, I don’t suppose you would. Don’t worry, I’ve got the perfect idea.”

“Oh?”

She grins. “You’ll see.”

He feels a thrum of anxiety before he can tamp down on it. Alex wouldn’t humiliate him. She wouldn’t request that he wear something ridiculous. Out in public, no less.

Though, a stray thought runs through his mind. _You would still do it, wouldn’t you? Just to make Alex happy._

It sounds suspiciously like Coralee, biting and vicious in a way that Coralee has _never_ been.

He shuts his eyes against the guilt. It’s been nearly twenty years. Of mourning, of not letting himself have any measure of happiness, lest it be taken away again. Of lying to himself, telling himself that he’s happier alone, that he doesn’t need anyone.

But Coralee is gone. She might not have left of her own accord, but she had chosen to stay away. She had chosen to let him believe he was dead. She had chosen to get back in that van, to drive away without him, never once giving him the chance to prove that he could keep himself safe, that it wasn’t her duty to protect him.

He doesn’t have anything to feel guilty for.

A hand touches his. Strand opens his eyes to see Alex, leaning over the arm of her chair, studying him. 

“You okay?” she asks. “You looked like you were in pain.”

“I’m fine,” he says. It might be the first time, in a long time, that he believes it.

~*~*~

When Alex arrives, days later, she has revised her costume.

The white dress is different. The skirt of this one goes down to her feet. A slit cut scandalously high reveals that she’s wearing combat boots. Gone is the tinsel halo. Instead, a silver circlet sits upon her head. There are three sets of wings attached to her back. She has two more sets of eyes painted onto her face--one set above her natural eyes and the other set below. They’re so realistic that Strand adjusts his glasses, wonders if he picked up the wrong set and he’s only just now noticing that the prescription is off.

“I know,” Alex says, grinning as he takes her in, “probably still ‘highly inaccurate.’ But I did do some research, this time. What do you think?”

_Beautiful_ , he wants to say. _Stunning. Exquisite._

“Passable,” he says.

Alex grins. “Passable? That’s better than I thought you’d say.”

She follows him inside, footsteps heavy in her boots. “Aren’t you curious about what I picked for you?”

He’s tried not to think about it. He can’t imagine what she’d think of as ‘perfect’ for him. “Please, do share.”

“Here,” Alex says. She pulls something small from her purse. “Bend down.”

He does so. She tugs at his hair, clipping something in place.

Before he can ask what it is, Alex asks, “Do you have your sunglasses?”

Strand rummages through his bag, pulls his sunglasses out of their case, offers them to Alex. She pulls his glasses away from his face, making the world blur out of focus, before she replaces them with his sunglasses, sliding them on with care.

“Can you see?” she asks.

“They’re prescription.” He’d had to buy another pair after his had been stolen.

“Good,” she says. She smiles up at him. “All done.”

Pulling a compact mirror from her purse, Alex opens it and holds it out, allowing him to examine himself.

He’s wearing his customary black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie tied around his neck. The only differences are the pointed, red devil horns peaking out of his hair and the sunglasses on his face.

“A demon?” he asks.

“A very specific demon, actually.” Alex smiles. “If anyone asks, your name is Crowley.”

He doesn’t understand the reference, but figures it must be something out of pop culture. “Are you ready to go?”

“I want to get a picture first.” She pulls out her phone, motions for him to bend down again. Holding the phone away from her with one hand, she pulls him close to get both of their faces into frame, tilts her head against his and smiles. Strand can’t keep his eyes off of her. Or the smile from tugging at his own lips.

She snaps a few photos, before lowering her phone. She turns to look at him, still close, close enough that he could tilt his head and press his lips to hers. 

As if on cue, Alex’s eyes dip down to trace his lips. “We should go,” she says, voice only just above a whisper.

“We should,” he says.

Neither move, reluctant to pull away. 

Finally, Strand begins to straighten. Alex’s hand darts out, pulls him back down by his lapel. Her lips brush his, hesitant and unsure. 

His hand comes up to cup her cheek, but he remembers her intricate makeup at the last second. Instead, he buries his hand in her hair. His other hand winds its way around her waist, under the third set of wings, and pulls her close. He slides his lips over hers, pleased when she seems to melt into him. 

Alex laughs as she pulls away. She touches her lips, kiss-reddened, with the tips of her fingers. She holds out her hand. With a soft smile, Strand takes it.

Together, they make their way to the car.


	83. "Stay there. I'm coming to get you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I can make up for the lack of an update this week with this 9-page monstrosity. 
> 
> Also, warning for violence ahead. It's not too graphic, but if you're worried about the content before you read it, drop me a line and I'll message you.

Strand checks his speed when the siren begins the blare behind him. Blue and red lights illuminate the speedometer when he glances down. Only five over.

He sighs and puts on his hazards. He rolls to a stop, pulling into the grass. The siren cuts off, but the lights still flash as the car pulls in behind him.

Strand watches through his rearview mirror as not one, but two uniformed police officers exit the vehicle. One pulls at his belt, hiking up ill-fitting trousers as he crosses behind Strand’s car. Both officers exchange a glance before striding up to Strand’s window.

The window opens with a mechanical _whirr_. Strand tries to smile up at the two men. It’s been a long day and all he wants to do is get back to his father’s house, pour himself a glass of whiskey, and sit down with the novel he’s been meaning to read for some time now. No research, no work, no pitying looks from Alex Reagan and her producer sidekick. If he cooperates, pretends that the sight of blue and red emergency lights along a dark, silent road doesn’t send him careening back in time nearly twenty years, perhaps he can be on his way without any more hassle. 

“Can I help you?” Strand asks. 

“Gonna need you to step out of your vehicle,” says one. His voice is gruff. Pitched, Strand thinks, deeper than it would normally be.

“My registration is in the glovebox,” Strand prompts. He hasn’t been pulled over often in his life--Ruby claims he drives like her grandfather--but it strikes him as odd that the officer hadn’t asked him for documentation first.

The other officer elbows the first. Training his partner, perhaps? That would explain why two officers stopped him for what should be a simple traffic violation.

The first officer glares back at his partner. “Right, yeah. Licence and registration.”

Strand shifts, pulls his wallet from his back pocket. He leans over to pop open the glovebox and removes his registration. The second officer takes both items, but doesn’t move toward the squad car.

“Now, step out of the vehicle.” The gruff officer swipes his thumb along his nose.

Strand nearly argues, but he closes his mouth and unbuckles his seatbelt. He just wants to get home.

The officers take a step back as he swings his door open. “May I ask what this is about?”

“You were swerving. How many drinks have you had tonight?” asks the second officer.

Strand blinks. He’s tired--exhausted, really--but it hasn’t affected his driving. “None. Nothing but tea.”

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down.”

“What?” Strand asks, browns drawn together in confusion. He hasn’t so much as raised his voice.

The officers exchange another glance.

“You know,” says the second officer. He waves Strand’s registration back and forth. “I think this car might be stolen.”

The gruff officer grins. “Would you look at that? Drunk _and_ disorderly.”

Strand shakes his head. His heart is beating hard in his chest. He cannot be arrested. He just _can’t_. Not again. “I’m not--this is _my_ car.”

“I’d say he’s getting, what’s the word?” asks the second officer.

“Belligerent,” answers the gruff officer.

“Belligerent. That’s it. Wouldn’t you say so, _partner_?”

The gruff officer’s grin changes. It curls up, the edges meaner, crueler in the flashing of the blue and red lights. “Looks like we might have to use a little force.”

The gruff officer’s fist connects with Strand’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him. He doubles over, both arms around his middle. He tries not to panic when breathing in proves impossible, tries to reason with himself that the paralysis of his diaphragm is only temporary. He falls back against the car, the support reassuring.

But not for long.

With Strand’s arms around his middle, the officer’s right hook splits open Strand’s cheekbone. He can’t even make a sound as a kaleidoscope of pain bursts behind his eyes, made worse when his glasses go flying. He hears the glass _crunch_ , hears the sound of a boot grinding the mangled remains into the pavement, hears the second officer laugh.

Finally, _finally_ , Strand manages to drag in a ragged breath. The world around him is a blur of pain and flashing lights. He groans.

The gruff officer crowds him, presses him back into the car. Strand can feel hot breath on his neck as the other man leans in to whisper, “What Thomas Warren wants, Thomas Warren gets. Reconsider his offer. Or something even worse might happen to your precious reporter.”

The man--not an officer, Strand’s mind supplies, one of Warren’s men, no doubt--hits him again, this time catching Strand’s ribs. He can’t see the other man’s movements, can’t even hope to protect himself. All he can do is close his eyes and brace himself for each blow. 

He loses track of how many times he’s hit or even where, loses himself in the pain, in the simple goal of _hold on_.

“C’mon, now,” says the second man, after long minutes have stretched on into an eternity. “Leave Richie be. He’s had enough, haven’t you, Richie?”

Strand doesn’t dignify his question with an answer. He concentrates on breathing. It’s all he can do to remain standing, even with the car at his back.

The gruff man slaps Strand’s cheek lightly. “Be seeing you,” he says, barely even out of breath, before taking a step away. “Think about what I said.”

Strand doesn’t move, not until he hears two sets of boots retreating, not until the other car’s engine roars to life, nor until the tires screech as the two hired thugs speed away. Only then does he let himself slide down the car door into the grass.

He should call the police--the actual police. But he knows it won’t do any good. He hadn’t been able to get a good look at either man. Neither had used any names, other than Thomas Warren’s. And if Thomas Warren had sent them, no doubt he had covered his tracks. 

Strand spits, only now realizing that his mouth tastes strongly of copper.

He lets himself rest, head tilted back, his eyes closed.

His phone is ringing.

He can hear it inside the car, playing the _Ghostbusters_ theme from the recent film. Ruby had thought it was funny, setting it to play any time Alex Reagan called.

He blinks his eyes open, for all the good that does him. He scrabbles at the grass, uses the car as leverage to pull himself up. It hurts, everything hurts, but he forces himself to move. His fingers find the door handle and he pulls it open.

The ringtone plays louder now, repeating the same short loop.

Strand drops into the driver’s seat. He feels around for his phone, having left it sitting in one of the cup holders. He grasps it just as the song goes silent.

He groans, sits back in the seat. He holds the phone against his chest like it’s something precious. It startles him when it begins to ring again. He’s never been more glad to hear the _Ghostbusters_ theme song. 

He swipes at the screen twice before he realizes he’s holding the phone upside down. He turns it the right way up, swipes again, and the ringing stops. He holds the phone to his ear, hisses a little when he brushes against his injured cheek. “Hello.”

“Hey, sorry. I know you just left a little while ago, but there was something I forgot I wanted to discuss with you. Is this a good time?”

“Ah.” Strand shifts in his seat, muffling a groan of pain. “Not exactly.”

“Oh.” Alex sounds disappointed. “Well, you’re probably tired. I can give you a call tomorrow?”

“I--” Strand pauses. He doesn’t want Alex any more involved than she has to be. By the threat the gruff man had whispered into his ear, she’s already too much involved as it is. “Nevermind. Tomorrow is fine.” 

“Are you sure? Is something wrong? You don’t sound too good.”

“I--Could you call a cab? For me?” He doesn’t know how else he is to get back to his father’s house. He can’t drive without his glasses. He’s in too much pain to walk, even if he could see where he was going.

“What? Why? I thought you got home ages ago.”

“I lost my glasses. Please. I just want to get home.”

Alex doesn’t say anything for a long time. When she does, her words are slowed with doubt, as if making sure she hasn’t heard him wrong. “You lost your glasses.”

“Yes.” And then, because he’s beginning to feel desperate, he says. “Alex, please.”

She sighs. Strand can hear typing on the other end. He assumes she’s pulled up the number for a cab service. “Okay. Where are you?”

He tells her the approximate address. 

Alex taps a few more keys on her keyboard. “Wait. This isn’t far from your house--sorry, your father’s house. How the hell did you lose your glasses all the way out there?”

What can he tell her that won’t lead to more questions?

He isn’t given the chance to find out. “Something happened. Something you aren’t telling me.”

Strand closes his eyes. The strain on them has started to give him a headache, on top of everything else. “If I tell you tomorrow, will you call the cab? Whatever you want. Just, please, call the--”

“It will be quicker if I go myself.”

“What? Alex, no.”

Keys scrape against Alex’s desk. “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

She hangs up, leaving Strand in sudden silence. Frustrated, he balls his fist and bashes it against the horn. The long _beeeeeep_ echoes through the wooded area around him. 

~*~

He hears Alex’s car before he sees the unfocused light of her headlights. She pulls to the side of the road just in front of him. Her tail lights go dark and he hears her car door open and the jangle of her keys. She hasn’t changed out of her heels yet. They _clip-clop_ against the road as she makes her way towards him.

There is the familiar _crunch_ of glass and Alex pauses. “What the--?”

Strand takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what’s to come.

Alex continues walking the short distance to his window. It’s still open. Strand ducks his head, hoping to hide the worst of the damage, but really, he’s just delaying the inevitable.

“You said you _lost_ your glasses, not that they’d been completely obliterated. What the hell? Did you toss them out the window and drive over them?”

“No,” Strand says.

“Then, what happened? C’mon, I think you owe me an explanation, at least.”

He looks up at her. She gasps and _clip-clops_ closer, until she’s right at his window.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. He startles when her hand brushes his cheek, just under his injury. “You’re bleeding.”

He hadn’t noticed. “I’d like to go home. Please.”

“Okay,” she says. She opens the door for him. “I’ll take you home. How well can you see?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid.” _That_ is an understatement. He’s practically blind without his glasses. The world around him is a blurry swirl of colors and indistinct shapes.

It’s a struggle to climb out of his seat, so much so that Alex takes his arm to help. 

“Jesus, you’re a mess,” Alex says. She slides an arm around his waist and Strand winces. “Let’s get you to my car.”

It’s a slow shuffle with Strand trying not to lean too heavily against Alex. He doesn’t know how women do half the things they do while standing on fragile stiletto heels, but the last thing he wants is for Alex to twist an ankle--or worse--on his behalf. 

She leads him into the grass and pauses. He hears the door open and Alex helps him to sit. Shutting the door for him, she leaves him to round the car. Strand sucks in a pained breath as he reaches for the seat belt, pulling slowly until he has enough slack to buckle it.

Alex gets into the car, buckles her own seat belt. But she doesn’t start the car, not right away. He can feel her eyes on him, even if he can’t see her watching him. “This wasn’t an accident, was it?”

Strand shakes his head gingerly. “No, it wasn’t.”

For a long moment, all he can hear is each of them breathing. Then, Alex shifts in her seat and the engine comes to life. “We should get you cleaned up.”

The drive is quiet. They’re only minutes from his father’s house. Alex helps him out of her car and into the house, unlocking the door for him when it proves too difficult.

“Where is your first aid kid?”

“I don’t have one. Not here.” It hadn’t crossed his mind to bring one when he’d moved from Chicago. He hadn’t expected to need anything more than a Band-Aid or two. He should have known better.

“Okay, well, let’s take a look at you. We may not even really need it.”

She moves toward the kitchen, her arm still around his waist. He sits heavily in the chair Alex pulls out for him.

“Glasses,” he reminds her, before she can pull too far away. “There’s a spare pair in my, ah, bedroom.”

“Sit,” she says. “I’ll get them. Hold on.”

He sits. There’s not much more he can do.

She must have taken her shoes off, because he doesn’t hear her until she comes padding into the room on stockinged feet. “Good news. I found some bandages and a bottle of painkillers. Oh, and here are your glasses.”

She slides them gently onto his face and the world comes back into focus. Some of the tension drops out of his shoulders. 

“Thank you.”

She smiles at him. Her eyes drift a little to trace the cut on his cheek. “It’s probably not as bad as it looks. How do you feel? And don’t tell me ‘fine’--you’re clearly in a lot of pain.”

He closes his mouth. She clearly knows him too well. Or he’s become entirely too predictable. “About as good as I look.”

Her smile morphs into something a little sad. She sets the bottle of painkillers in front of him. “I’ll get you some water.”

She bustles around the kitchen, comfortable enough in the space to know where he keeps the glasses. She fills one with water from the filtered tap in the refrigerator, then wets a washcloth from one of the drawers at the sink.

Alex hands the glass to him and Strand downs three of the painkillers in one go. 

“That bad, huh?”

Strand nods. “It should also help with the swelling.”

She presses the wet cloth against his face, swiping away half-dried blood. She’s careful when it comes to the injury itself, dabbing gently until she’s satisfied that the cut is clean. She unwraps a bandage and sticks it over his cheekbone, then when that doesn’t prove sufficient to cover it, unwraps and sticks another one beside it.

“Do you need help with your shirt?”

He’d zoned out while she was working, too caught up in his exhaustion and the warmth of her standing close. “What?”

“Your shirt. Your face wasn’t the only place you were injured. You flinched every time I touched your side.”

He starts to shrug out of his suit jacket. Alex lets him work at it on his own, doesn’t even step in when he has trouble pulling it down his arms. He breathes through it, moving as slow and steady as he can. When he finally gets it off, he has to sit back in his chair.

Alex gives him an inquisitive glance, letting him know that her offer of help still stands.

Strand can’t help the flush that burns all the way up the back of his neck. It’s been a _very_ long time since a woman has undressed him. “Please.”

She makes quick work of the buttons at his wrists. She loosens his tie and pulls the loop up and over his head. He looks away when her hands move to the button placket, deftly pushing each button through its hole. He doesn’t want to see her reaction to his battered torso, still much too thin after the last few months. 

He hears her reaction, nevertheless. She gasps once the fabric is parted. Her fingertips brush featherlight over his ribs, down to his stomach. Strand bites down on a groan.

“You’re already starting to bruise,” she says. She pushes the shirt off his shoulders, helps him to pull his arms free. “I don’t see any more cuts. Just--what happened?”

“I--” He can’t tell her. She’s already losing sleep over threats to her life that don’t exist. He can’t add to her stress by telling her about ones that may actually be lurking around the next corner. “I’m very tired, Alex.”

Her expression flashes disappointment and frustration, but then it softens. “Okay. You’re not hurt anywhere else, are you?”

Strand shakes his head.

“Let me help you into bed. You should rest.”

Strand stands, using the table and the back of his chair. Alex takes a step back, lets him shuffle into the living area. He takes one look at the stairs and decides against them. He’ll tackle them tomorrow, once he isn’t quite so exhausted. 

“The sofa will be fine.”

“Are you sure? I could help you upstairs.”

Strand shakes his head again. He drags the throw blanket from the armchair on his way passed it, sinks slowly into the cushions of Ruby’s upcycled sofa. He takes a breath before swinging his legs up and onto the sofa.

Alex takes the blanket from him. She shakes it out and lays it over his body. She bends over to untie his shoes, pulls them off one by one, and lines them up on the floor at the base of the sofa. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you, Alex. You’ve done enough. Go home and try to get some sleep.”

She smiles. “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

Alex takes her leave, turning off lights as she moves through the house. She doesn’t put her shoes back on until she’s shut the door behind her. He can hear her _clip-clop_ her way down the driveway.

Despite the pain and exhaustion, Strand doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time. All he can think about are the hired thug’s words, threatening Alex’s safety. 

He couldn’t live with himself if she were hurt because of him.

He resolves to call the number hidden at the back of his father’s journal, the number Strand knows Warren left for him to find, just in case Strand changed his mind about Warren’s offer to work for him. It won’t be the first time he’s had to do something he doesn’t want to, in order to keep another person safe.

To keep Alex Reagan safe, he would do just about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh, I unashamedly took the scene where Bos sends his cop friends to beat up Joe from Halt and Catch Fire and ran with it. #noshamenovember


	84. "The key is under the mat."

Alex sits down at her desk with a sigh. She boots up her computer and waits as it comes back to life. She takes a sip of her coffee. She tosses her car keys into her bag and shuts it in the bottom drawer of her desk. She looks up, just as the login screen pops into view. She types in her password, curses when she gets it wrong, hits the Caps Lock key to disengage it, and types her password in again. 

She takes another sip from her coffee and waits again for all of her programs to load. 

She’d had another bad night, but weren’t they all? She’d woken up screaming, again. She’d gotten out of bed in the middle of the night, again. She’d spent the rest of the morning trying to forget the terrifying visions she’d had while asleep, again.

Alex yawns and clicks into her station e-mail. She clicks through the same reports, accepts a few meetings from Nic and her producers. Nic has forwarded her a few e-mails from listeners. There are a few notes about how much they love her show, which still, to this day, make Alex feel giddy. There are a few questions--a _lot_ of them are about Strand. Some questions Alex doesn’t feel like she has the right to answer, others she doesn’t know the answer to herself. 

As she’s getting to the end of her messages, Alex notices one from their voicemail service. It’s not uncommon for Alex to receive messages when she’s not in the office, but the timestamp on this particular message stands out to Alex. It reads 03:00, right on the metaphorical dot.

She wonders, at first, if it could be Strand. If there is one other person out there not getting as much sleep as they should be, it’s him. She’s called him at all hours--for questions about the podcast, clarification on some of his research, to schedule meetings--but still, never once has Alex caught him asleep.

But Strand would have called her cell phone, if he had found something urgent, knowing it’s the quickest way to reach her. Unless, it was not urgent enough to disturb whatever rest she might have been getting at three in the morning. He would have waited until morning, if that was the case. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d come into work only to have her phone immediately ring, Strand’s name prominent on the caller ID.

Only one way to find out. She clicks on the message and then plays the audio file.

“ _Ancient Days. The compass measures darkness. Look beyond the enlightened_ ,” says the computerized voice. “ _Future unknown. Present unaltered. The past...unforgotten_.”

“Oh, not again.” It’s the same message that Nic had played for her from his own voicemail. Now, it seems, that without a response, the sender has moved on to Alex.

It has to be one of her listeners, messing with them. Even with the audio footage that they had aired of Coralee’s robotic riddle, they still get a number of calls from people claiming to be Coralee. But Coralee had left. She’d saved their lived, dropped them off at a safehouse, and she’d gone out of their lives. Of Strand’s life, for the second time. There is no way that she’d be sending them more clues over the phone.

But, what if she is?

Is this, perhaps, the safest method of getting into contact with Alex and Strand? If so, why not contact Strand directly? Strand’s personal number is unlisted, but the number for the Strand Institute is just a Google search away. Surely, if it were Coralee, she would have called the Institute and left a message with Ruby to forward to Strand.

There is still a niggling feeling of doubt as Alex’s mouse hovers over the button to delete the message.

Alex sighs again. She tosses the rest of her coffee back and stares at the message some more. 

When no decision is forthcoming, she gets up, goes to the breakroom to make more coffee. She sits down again and looks at her screen over her mug, as if the answers will be easier to see through the swirling steam rising in front of her eyes.

Alex picks up the receiver of her phone--the same phone the message was left on--and dials a long familiar number. 

“Hello.”

Alex can tell from how far away his voice sounds that he’s put her on speaker. “Hey, it’s me. Are you driving?” 

“No. I’m in the middle of some research. Did you need something?”

Alex smiles. Right to the point. “Yeah, actually. Can I play you something? Over the phone?”

“That’s fine.”

Alex turns the volume up on her computer so he can hear it. She plays the message for him.

Strand is silent for a long time. Long enough that Alex prompts, “So? What do you think?”

“Can you forward that to me?”

“Yeah,” Alex says. She forwards the message to him as she speaks. “Sent. Do you think it could be Coralee?”

“More likely, someone who wants you to think it’s Coralee. However--” Strand doesn’t often drift off in the middle of a conversation, but when he continues, he sounds miles away, despite not having moved any further from the phone. “I feel as if I should know this reference. Ancient Days. Look beyond the enlightened.”

“You think it could be a clue to something?”

Alex can almost picturing him shaking his head to clear it. “Perhaps.”

Alex hesitates. “The end of the message--”

She doesn’t know how to continue, doesn’t want to bring up something that could be potentially painful for him. 

“Doesn’t fit with the rest.”

“Exactly.” Alex slumps in her chair. “What do you think it means? The past, unforgotten?”

Strand sighs. “I don’t know.”

If a computerized voice could be emotive, Alex would say that it almost sounds like an apology. Like, whoever is sending the message wants Alex or Strand or the both of them to know that while the future may be uncertain, and whatever choices that have been made in the present remain unchanged, that the past--past mistakes, perhaps--are not far from their mind. 

She doesn’t say this to Strand, however. It’s all conjecture, on her part. A feeling that sits like lead in the pit of her stomach. The same feeling that had made her call Strand about the message in the first place. Strand will want hard proof, however, over a gut feeling on Alex’s part. So she keeps it to herself. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your research. I’ll let you know if we get any more messages like this one.”

“Thank you, Alex,” Strand says. “Goodbye.”

“‘Bye.”

Alex takes a drink of her coffee, but spits it back into the mug upon finding it cold. She’ll make another cup before she gets to work. She has research of her own to dive into.

~*~

Strand walks into her office, a week later, with a package under his arm. It’s wrapped in brown paper, rectangular, but only an inch or so thick. 

“Whatcha got there?” Alex asks, rounding her desk to meet him.

“You remember the riddle that was left in your messages?”

“Yeah, kind of hard to forget. You think you’ve figured it out?”

Strand holds up the package. His eyes are alight, bright blue even in the yellowed fluorescents of her office. He’s excited, Alex realizes. “William Blake.”

Alex blinks. “I’m sorry, who?”

“William Blake. Born in the mid-1700s. He was a poet and painter during the Romantic Age. He was also a radical Christian.”

Alex tries not to laugh at the way Strand’s face sours at the words ‘radical Christian,’ as if he’s just tasted something rotten. “Okay, and you think he’s the answer to the riddle. Is that one of his paintings?”

“In a way. I have a print of one of his works, _The Ancient of Days_. I had Ruby send it from Chicago.”

“Ancient Days,” Alex says. 

“Right.” Strand sets the package down at the edge of her desk and begins to tear the wrapping from it. Alex balls up the brown paper and tosses it into the trash bin under her desk.

The painting is matted and framed in black. Both nearly blend into the color palette of the actual work. An old, bearded man, surrounded by black and red clouds. The old man bends down, his hand outstretched, holding a tool of some sort that splits the darkness below him.

“Is that supposed to be God?”

Strand smiles his crooked smile. “Not quite. This is Urizen. According to the mythology of Blake’s poetry and paintings, Urizen was one of the four Zoas that represent one central god. The other three Zoas represented the trinity--the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit--while Urizen represented more of a Satanic force. He was a god of reason and law and sought to rule the universe through these values. For that, he fell. He created the material world, but from his jealousy of humanity came Wrath and Justice.”

Alex takes all of this information in. Several questions run through her mind. She’s just not sure how to phrase them. “Okay, but reason and law and justice aren’t exactly bad things.” 

“Blake lived during the Enlightenment, also known as the Age of Reason. His works were essentially a product of his time, a response to ‘enlightened’ thinkers who were heavily influenced by Descartes, Locke, and Newton.”

“So, he wasn’t a fan of science or philosophy?”

“He thought that the enlightened view of the universe would trap imagination. Urizen is originally seen in Blake’s work opposing Los, the embodiment of imagination.”

Alex looks down at the painting. Strand _would_ have a print depicting a god or reason and law, alleged Satanic force or no. She tries to picture it hanging somewhere in Strand’s Chicago home. “So, what is Urizen doing here? He’s got some kind of tool in his hands.”

Strand’s hand reaches out, taps on the glass over the tool with a finger. “A compass. Urizen is sometimes depicted with architect’s tools, which he uses to create the material world. Here, he’s using the compass to measure it, to constrain it through those measurements.”

“‘Look beyond the enlightened,’” Alex recites. “Do you think this could be like the other painting? Another cipher?”

“One way to find out,” Strand says. But he doesn’t move from his spot, looking down at the print thoughtfully. 

“Should I?” Alex asks, motioning toward the frame.

“Oh. Yes.” Strand steps back, allowing Alex to flip the frame over. Her nails make quick work of unhooking the back of the frame from the print.

There is nothing there.

Alex’s shoulders slump. “Well, that was a bust.”

They both look down at the blank paper as if expecting some kind of answer to pop out of them. At a loss for what to do next, Alex goes to replace the back of the frame, only for Strand’s hand to reach out, causing her to pause. Strand lifts the paper out of the frame entirely and smiles.

On the back of the matting, written in silver sharpie, is a series of letters and numbers.

Strand’s eyes sparkle when he looks at her. “The key is under the mat.”

Alex can’t help the smile that lights up her own face. “Very punny. So we have the key. But to what? She--if it really is Coralee--wouldn’t use the same book, would she?”

Strand shakes his head. “I suspect not.”

“So, what? We wait?”

“We wait.”

Alex sighs. She hates waiting. “I guess I have one other question.”

Strand takes out his phone to take a picture of the key on the back of the matting. “What’s that?”

“Whoever it was who sent this--how did they get access to the painting in the first place?” Someone would have had to break into his apartment. They would have needed time to take the painting off the wall, to copy the key onto the backing, to reframe it and hang it back on the wall. Easy enough to do with Strand away in Seattle, except, Strand’s apartment hadn’t been broken into. Someone had let themselves in and had locked it again behind them.

Strand turns to her, his expression turned grim. “I’ll admit, the implication is not exactly comforting.”

“Understatement of the year,” Alex says.

With all of the players on the board, at this point in their investigation, Alex can only hope that this one is friendly.


	85. "It doesn't bother me."

“Hey, do you mind?”

Strand isn’t given time to answer before Alex Reagan’s arms snake around his waist, underneath both his suit jacket and his coat. She presses her face against his chest.

“It’s f-freezing,” Alex says. Her words are muffled in the cotton of his shirt, just barely audible. She shivers, her entire body trembling against him. “Why the hell did we come out here anyway?”

“You wanted to see these cave paintings for yourself--in person--if I recall correctly.” 

He expects her to look up at him, to make a face at the ‘I told you so’ audible in his tone. It’s a testament to how cold she is that she only snuggles closer.

“We can go back,” Strand says. “If you need to. Your coat clearly isn’t thick enough.”

“I’ll be fine in a minute. You don’t mind, do you?”

Strand finally wraps his own arms around her. He holds her close, his breath misting over the crown of her head. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Oh, good. You’re like a freaking heater. How are you so warm?”

Strand laughs. “For one, women’s outerwear tends to be designed with form valued over function.”

Alex squawks a protest. 

“It isn’t your fault. You can essentially blame the fashion industry.”

She finally does look up at him, a grin on her face. “And how do _you_ know so much about the fashion industry, huh?”

Strand smiles back, a little upturn of one corner of his mouth. “I never said that I did.”

Her brown eyes glitter, even in the dim light of the cave. “Uh huh, sure. Maybe I can ask Nic to do a bonus episode of The Black Tapes. You could give the listeners fashion advice.”

Strand laughs again. “Perhaps not.”

“Spoilsport.” Alex relaxes her hold and he lets her step away from the warm circle of his arms. She claps her gloved hands together. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Strand tries not to miss the contact as Alex moves away. He can’t remember the last time he’s shared an embrace with another person. He had been too hurt to even touch Coralee upon her return.

But he doesn’t have to miss it for long. Alex’s gloved hand reaches out to capture his, threading her fingers through his. She smiles up at him, bright with the thrill of the investigation. “C’mon.”

Strand grasps her hand in his and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll, with no spaces in between chapters, this monstrosity is over 200 pages. Holy god.


	86. "You're important too."

Alex opens her eyes, wondering as she does so why her bed feels so hard. For a moment, she stares into the darkness. Her eyes refuse to adjust. She waves her hand in front of her face, but she can’t even see the outline of it.

That isn’t right. Her window usually lets in some of the light from outside her bedroom, despite the heavy curtains. It’s never been _this_ dark. This dark feels almost impenetrable, like a physical veil shielding her eyes.

Alex sits up, groaning when pain spikes through her head. She touches her scalp, where the pain seems to radiate from the most. Her fingers come away sticky. “Ow.”

“Alex?” 

The voice in the darkness is so quiet that Alex nearly doesn’t recognize it. “Richard?”

Alex hears the shuffling of fabric, then uneven footsteps in her direction. The footsteps thud against metal floor and echo around her. The void Alex sits in suddenly feels much, much smaller. Definitely not her bedroom.

“Where are we?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I thought I was alone.” His knees creak as he folds himself down beside her. There is a quick intake of breath and then a muffled groan.

“Are you okay?”

“My arm,” he says. Alex can feel the warmth of his body heat next to her. “It may be broken.”

“What the hell happened?” She thinks back, but everything after she’d left the PNWS office is fuzzy. She’s wearing her workout leggings and a thin tank top--she must have been on her way to the gym. No wonder she’s cold. It’s _freezing_. She shifts a little closer to Strand and wraps her arms around herself.

Strand sighs. “I cannot believe I’m about to say this.”

When he doesn’t say anything, Alex prompts, “But?” 

“We were accosted by monks.”

“ _Monks_?”

Alex can just imagine the pained look on Strand’s face. And not just because of his arm. “Yes.”

“The Order of the Cenophus?”

“I assume. Their robes were light gray.”

The mystery gives her something else to focus on, besides the pain in her head, the cold, and the fear that lingers at the base of her spine. “Unless it was someone who wanted you to think it was the Cenophus.”

“There is that to consider, as well.”

They fall silent, each thinking their own thoughts. If it weren’t for the soft whisper of breath beside her, Alex can imagine herself here, in the dark, all on her own. She shivers and this time, it’s not just the cold. She would have woken to darkness, without any explanation for how she’d gotten there. 

“How did you break your arm?” Alex asks. She needs something else to think about.

“I heard someone open the front door. Ruby isn’t scheduled to be back in Seattle until next week. I thought--I thought it might be you, so I went to check.”

Alex doesn’t normally enter Strand’s home without knocking first, but beyond Ruby, Alex doesn’t think Strand has any other visitors. It makes sense that he’d assume it was Alex. “Seeing a bunch of monks in the living room must have been a surprise.”

Strand laughs. “It was. There were only three. I tried to run, but the back door was locked. I couldn’t get it open in time. They grabbed me; I struggled. In the end, they must have drugged me. Everything after that is hazy.”

Alex doesn’t know whether or not she got the better deal. She already has enough nightmare fodder. Adding a home invasion, seeing her kidnappers, knowing something terrible was about to happen? _That_ would just be icing on the demon-filled cake of her dreams. “Does it hurt? Your arm?”

Strand doesn’t answer. That alone is enough for Alex to know that it does. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, after a moment. “I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

Alex pulls her legs up to her chest. She wraps her arms around them. “I’ll forgive you this once. You know, since you probably still have drugs working their way through your system.”

“Very kind of you,” he murmurs. She can hear the slight edge of a smile in his voice. 

Alex takes a deep breath and lets it out. She hugs her legs tighter. “Just my head,” she says. “I think they must have hit me. I didn’t even see it coming. Other than that? Cold.” 

“Would you like--Do you want--?”

Alex waits for him to finish, but he doesn’t. Not in words. Instead, he moves closer to her, until there is one long line of contact between them. His arm--the good one--comes around her back and settles at her waist. Alex curls into his warmth.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much. Thank you.”

Strand’s arm pulls her closer. “You’re not even wearing a jacket.”

Alex sighs into the soft cotton of his shirt. “I was on my way to the gym.”

With Strand’s strong arm around her, Alex feels not just some of the cold, but also a little of her anxiety drain out of her. They haven’t accomplished much in the way of getting themselves free, but Alex feels comforted all the same.

“Do you think there’s a way out?”

“I wasn’t awake for very long before you were. I felt around, as much as I could. You’re lucky I didn’t step on you.”

“But no way out?”

“No,” Strand says. “As far as I can tell, we’re in some sort of bunker. Metal walls and floors. No seams, no doors or windows.”

Once, bored on a rare day off, Alex had done the whole couch potato routine. She’d sat on her sofa in her pajamas with the television remote in her hand, flipping through channels. She’d stopped, briefly, at one of those learning channels, the kind that has slowly moved away from educational documentaries to wild-haired conspiracy theorists and reality shows featuring post-apocalyptic preppers. She’d watched as a man wearing camouflage overalls and rain boots had explained how he’d turned a large metal shipping container into an end-of-the-world underground sanctuary. If they’ve been put somewhere similar, the only way out would be up.

“Did you try the ceiling?”

“Too high to reach, even for me.”

Alex slumps a little. Strand is tall--probably the tallest person she knows. If Strand can’t reach, the ceiling would have to be pretty high up. “So, we’re trapped?”

Strand is silent, perhaps preferring that to offering her empty platitudes. He can no more promise her that everything will be alright than she can set his broken arm in the dark. Unless their kidnappers come back, they’re stuck right where they are.

“Well, fuck,” she says. 

Strand gives a short breath of laughter. He doesn’t say it, but Alex imagines he feels much the same way. 

It’s much too oppressive in the bunker for Alex to stay quiet for long, even with Strand holding her. “I just wish there was something we could do.”

“You should rest,” Strand says. “There are easier ways to kill someone. If they wanted us dead--”

Alex shivers, all the way down to her toes. “Then we already would be. _Jesus_.”

Strand squeezes her closer to him, mistaking her fear for cold. “I--Listen, Alex. Whatever happens--” He pauses. “You’re important. To me. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of here.”

Alex sits there, stunned. She blinks a few times, for all the good it does her in total darkness. “You idiot. You’re important too. Even if I had the chance, I wouldn’t just leave you here.”

She swears that Strand stops breathing. She nudges him, gently, hesitant to jar his broken arm. 

He swallows, takes a breath. “You wouldn’t be here, if you’d never met me. If you’d never learned about my Black Tapes.”

“And you wouldn’t be here, if I hadn’t called and left your poor executive assistant _eleven_ different messages.”

Strand breathes another short laugh. “You’re not the first intrepid reporter to call the Institute.”

Alex laughs, too. “And I’m sure I won’t be the last. Because we’re going to get out of here. Both of us.”

“If you insist,” he says. Despite his words, Alex knows that given the chance, he really _will_ do anything in his power to get her out of the bunker. Even if he has to stand her on his shoulders, broken arm and all. For now, though, she lets the argument lie. 

~*~*~

Alex’s stomach has been growling for, what she assumes, has been the last few hours. It’s impossible to tell the time in the bunker, however. Time seems to stretch out, the same way that the darkness does. It could have only been thirty minutes, for all she knows. 

The hunger gives her something else to think about. It’s gotten colder, so much so that even Strand seems affected by it. They huddle close, Alex’s arms around Strand now, her face buried in the cotton of his shirt. 

He undoubtedly thinks that Alex has fallen asleep like this. All conversation has long gone quiet. But even the pitch black silence, Alex finds herself unable to sleep. Her eyes are closed and she listens to the steady beating of his heart as her thoughts continue to race.

She’s worried about Strand’s arm. She’s worried that they’ll be stuck in this dark box forever, that Nic will be too busy with his own podcast to realize that she’s even missing. Not until it’s too late. She’s worried that they _won’t_ be trapped forever, that the monks will come back and they’ll end up in a situation far worse. 

She’s lost in visions of sacrificial altars to ancient chthonic goddesses when she hears it. Scratching.

Alex tenses up, wondering if she’s started to hallucinate. Strand stiffens, as well. Had he heard it too?

It happens again, louder. Metal scratching against metal.

“Did you hear that?” Alex asks in a whisper.

“Yes,” Strand says, equally as quiet.

“Do you think it’s the monks?”

“I don’t know. But we should be ready. Can you stand?”

Her muscles are stiff from sitting on the floor for so long, but she manages to stand and shake them out a little. She leans down, finding his shoulder in the dark. “Take my hand. I’ll help you up.”

He takes it, uses it to steady himself as he struggles to his feet.

The scratching is even louder now. The scrape of metal makes her wince. 

And then it stops.

They stand there, each of them holding their breath as they listen.

There is nothing, nothing for what seems like an eternity. And then light. Alex shields her eyes against it, too bright after so long in the dark. Her eyes water, but she forces herself to look.

Someone is shining the beam of a flashlight into their bunker. Alex can see red metal walls surrounding them on all sides. Strand is just a tall shadow beside her, his face turned away from the light, holding his arm awkwardly by his side.

“Hello?” Alex calls out.

“Alex?” 

It’s Nic. Alex is so giddy with relief that she nearly throws herself into Strand. She stops herself, but only just barely.

“Nic!” Alex makes her way under the squared hole in the ceiling where Nic is almost hanging over the edge. “How the hell did you find us?”

“We got a tip at the station. Looks like you’ve got a guardian angel. A really creepy guardian angel.”

“Who?”

“Simon Reece.”

Alex looks back at Strand, but his expression is difficult to read. She wonders if Simon Reece is even a blip on his radar, after being followed by cultists his entire life. “We can deal with that later,” she says, looking back up at Nic. “Can you get us out of here?”

“There’s a ladder. Hold on.”

Alex backs away from the hole in the ceiling as the light disappears for a breif moment. Then, it bounces around as Nic, grunting with the effort, lowers a steel ladder down into the bunker. Alex grabs it as soon as it’s within reach, steadying it underneath the hole.

“You go first,” she says to Strand.

“I believe the expression is ‘ladies first,’” Strand argues.

“Yes, well, this lady doesn’t have a broken arm. I’ll keep the ladder steady and Nic can help as soon as you get to the top.”

They stare at each other, fighting a wordless battle. Finally, Strand’s gaze softens. “Fine.”

Strand’s progress up the ladder is slow. Alex keeps the heavy ladder as steady as she can, with Nic holding on at the top. 

Once Nic hauls Strand the rest of the way up, Alex waits for him to return with the light before putting her foot on the bottom rung. She climbs as quickly as she can, grateful when she can finally feel fresh air hit her face and fill her lungs. She hadn’t realized how stale the air had gotten in the bunker until she breathes in and the outside air fills her, cold and sharp and clean.

Finally free, Alex hugs Nic. Then she turns to Strand, who looks rougher than he’d alluded to--a fresh bruise darkening his jaw under the stubble, broken arm held close to his side, clearly favoring his right leg--and hugs him, too. “We’re safe. Oh my God, we’re safe,” she says into his chest.

Nic coughs. He’s smiling when Alex pulls away from Strand. “We should get going. We don’t know when those guys will be back.”

“We need to go to the hospital,” Strand says. “Alex was knocked unconscious after a blow to the head.”

“And Strand’s arm might be broken,” Alex says, when he fails to mention his own injury.

“The hospital, then.” Nic leads them through a wooded area, his flashlight cutting through the night, putting the bunker behind them one step at a time. His car is parked by the side of the road, still running, his headlights shining like a beacon in the dark. 

“Who is that?” Strand asks.

There is someone already sitting in the driver’s seat of Nic’s car.

“Geoff.” Nic smiles and scratches at the back of his neck. “I told him to stay with the car just in case we needed a quick getaway.”

“Good thinking,” Alex says. She rubs her chilled fingers together. “At least it’ll be warm in the car.”

Alex slides into the back seat. Strand settles in beside her, wincing as twists to buckle his seatbelt. Geoff smiles at them from the rearview mirror and revs the engine. “You guys look like hell.”

Alex laughs. “Yeah, well, it’s been a long day.”

“I’ll say.” He looks from her to Strand, smiling all over again, as if he’s just figured out the answer to a riddle. “Where to?”

“Hospital,” Nic tells him.

Geoff pulls onto the road and with every mile the put between them and the bunker, Alex feels herself relax. 

If she and Strand are slumped together in the back seat by the time they reach the hospital, well, Nic promises to keep the pictures on his phone to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, apparently, i've forgotten how to write short chapters? that's why it's been a few days between updates for the last few chapters. instead of writing a chapter a day, i've been writing one chapter over several days. or, in this case, i've been working on this chapter since last week, omg. 
> 
> you know, just in case any of ya'll were wondering why updates have slowed down.


	87. "I saved you a seat."

He’s dreaming. 

Strand takes a moment to look at his surroundings. A church. All dark wooden pews and stained glass. Instead of a cross, just behind the altar stands a large statue--an angel, her wings spread wide, arms raised as she delivers the word of God.

It’s been a long time since Strand has stepped foot in a church. And he’s never been to this particular church. He knows, however, that it doesn’t mean his mind hasn’t taken bits and pieces from his memory to fill the space. The stained glass, glowing an eerie purple, reminds him of the windows of the Notre Dame cathedral. The angel is reminiscent of the Winged Victory of Samothrace, if the sculpture had been found completed. 

The pews, even, are stolen straight out of the past. He remembers sitting in between Cheryl and his mother, his little feet kicking at the pew in front of him. He remembers his mother’s hand on his knee, telling him to be still. 

It had been the first and last time his mother had taken them to a service. His father had come home from one of his trips, had listened to Strand’s recounting of the experience at the dinner table, and then had forbidden it completely. 

Strand hadn’t understood his mother’s anxious expression, nor the way her fingers knotted the tablecloth as he told the story, not until Howard Strand had started to yell.

He can’t remember his mother ever outwardly practicing her faith, after that. Not until she’d asked for a priest on her deathbed.

Strand hadn’t been able to deny her this one request. 

It wasn’t as if his father had been around to protest.

Strand shakes his head, hoping to dislodge the dream. He’s gotten better at realizing when he’s dreaming. Some are easy to duck out of, to return to blissful blackness until his alarm buzzes him out of it come morning. Others are more difficult, clinging to him like quicksand. He wakes from these dreams with the heavy sensation of chains at his wrists. He isn’t claustrophobic--not in the least--but these dreams force him out of bed and out into the early morning sun for a long, grueling run. 

It’s rare, these days, that Strand cannot escape a dream completely, however. He shakes his head again, but the church stands firm around him. Somewhere, an unseen organist begins to play.

“I’m not playing this game,” Strand says, more to his own subconscious than because he thinks someone might be listening.

“What game?” asks a familiar voice. 

Alex is sitting in one of the pews. She’s twisted around in her seat to look at him. She smiles when he sees her and beckons him over with an eager wave. “Come on. I saved you a seat.”

The church is empty, but for the two of them. Alex doesn’t need to save him a seat. Still, she urges him on as if an entire congregation will appear at any moment.

Strand’s footsteps echo around them as he walks down the aisle. He slides into the pew, his long legs cramped in the confined space. The sight makes him feel dizzy and Strand closes his eyes against the lurching feeling. 

His legs should not be this long, he should be able to kick the pew in front of him. His mother should be sitting, mouthing prayers beside him, his big sister whispering in his ear.

He blinks his eyes open and the dizziness is gone.

“You’ve been so busy lately, I thought you weren’t going to come,” Alex says. She has a book, a leather bound Bible, opened on her lap. Her fingers trace through the lines of a psalm as if she’s following along.

“This is a dream,” he tells her. He already told his subconscious he wasn’t going to play along. Perhaps if he keeps denying it any power, the dream will release him.

“I know you don’t believe, but I’m glad to have you with me,” she says. It’s as if he hasn’t spoken at all.

“You’re not here.” The real Alex is tucked into her own bed, possibly tossing and turning as her own nightmares plague her. 

He feels a thrill of guilt, his face hot with it, before he shoves it deep inside of himself. It’s not his fault that Alex can’t sleep. Not his fault that she’s taken everything she’s seen of his Black Tapes and internalized it.

But it is, isn’t it? He’d thought, perhaps, that his own militant skepticism would protect her. That she would follow his example and place her trust in the laws of physics and biology, in _quantifiable_ science. But he’d known about her fear of demons--she had told him, before they had even started. He didn’t need to show her the exorcism or the demon board. He could have switched those tapes with any number in his collection.

“I’m sorry,” he says, knowing that he’ll never have the courage to apologize to her in person. 

“Churches are always so beautiful, don’t you think?” Alex smiles up at him. 

Even in a dream, Alex’s smiles are blinding. He feels his heart skip a beat, looks away before he can be caught in its radiance. 

Alex continues. “I love the way the light hits the stained glass and makes it just _glow_ , you know? And the candles. Have you ever seen so many lit at once?”

There were no candles, not at the start of his dream. He looks up to see hundreds of them, covering every surface, their flames flickering in a non-existent draft.

“You should light one,” Alex says.

Strand refuses to move. He wants this dream to end.

Alex’s eyes move, following something beyond him. Strand turns to see himself, standing before the altar. His double’s fingers touch the base of a candle, taller than the rest, and the wick alights. His double’s head tips back to study the statue of the angel. 

She’s wearing a wedding veil. It trails, down over her marble face, the hem dangerously close to the candle his other had just lit. The fabric sways over the flame, the smoke staining the white fabric a charcoal black.

Strand suddenly feels heavy with the sense that something is about to be terribly, terribly wrong. “You need to go. Alex, you have to leave.”

Her eyes flicker, briefly, to him. She _has_ to have heard him. But she looks back at his double, watching as the other Strand stands at the altar. His double seems unconcerned as the veil passes straight through the flame, as fire begins to lick along the hemline.

“Alex, listen. I know--I _know_ that you’re just a figment of my subconscious. But I need you to leave. I can’t wake up. I can’t wake up and I can’t watch you--”

Burn, he means to say. He can’t make himself say it. The word gets caught in his throat. He closes his eyes when Alex doesn’t move from her seat, tries to force himself awake.

He opens his eyes, Alex still sitting serenely beside him. The marble angel, which should be impervious to fire, is now completely engulfed. The other Strand has disappeared.

Fire is spreading from the other candles around the church. It races up walls, eats away at the choir loft. Pews on either side of them begin to catch. Smoke fills the church, roiling and black.

“Please,” Strand whispers, to no one. To himself? “Please. Wake up. _Wake up!_ ”

The fire is just about to reach them. He looks at Alex, beautiful, unconcerned Alex, still smiling, still unaware of the danger they’re in, and finally, _finally_ , he wakes up.

His cell phone is ringing. 

Strand gropes at the bedside table until his fingers wrap around his phone. He swipes at it, the screen blurry without his glasses. He collapses back against his pillow, the phone pressed to his ear. “Hello.”

“Hey, it’s Alex. Were you asleep?”

“Ah, yes. Sorry. What time is it?”

Alex pauses, presumably to check the time. “Almost noon. Are you feeling okay? I can call back later.”

“I--no. I’m fine,” Strand says. He rubs at his face with his free hand, trying to dislodge the dream. He can still feel the heat of the fire. “I was up late with some research. I must have slept through my alarm. What did you need?”

Alex’s tone is doubtful. “If you’re sure you’re alright.”

“I am.”

“Well, we got a tip, from one of our listeners, about some sacred geometry. It was found in a church, if you can believe it.”

Strand freezes. His blood has turned to ice in his veins. “A church.”

“Yeah. It’s called--” Strand hears the shuffling of paper, muffled by Alex’s hand over the receiver. “Our Lady of Victory. Do you want to meet me there? I got permission from the priest for us to look around.”

Strand flounders for something, anything to say. They _cannot_ go to the church. He hates himself for it, for giving into the dream--it’s _just_ a dream--but he’s filled with an almost overwhelming sense of dread. “I thought we could go over something. Here. At my father’s house.”

“Oh?” Alex asks. “Well, okay. Why don’t I give you time to shower and get dressed? I’ll bring over something for lunch.”

Strand sinks into the mattress, breathing out with relief. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Alex hangs up.

Later, after Strand has come up with something sufficiently important to draw Alex’s attention away from the church for the rest of the afternoon, they sit in Strand’s living room. The television is on, playing local news, but neither of them is paying it much attention. 

Alex lifts her wine glass to her lips, her arm stretch across the back of the sofa. She opens her mouth to say something, but stops, frowning. “Holy shit.”

Strand looks over at the television to see a news anchor on the screen, standing with her back to a burning building. Beneath the woman, a banner reads, “Arson? Our Lady of Victory burns in uncontrollable fire.”

“It’s a good thing we didn’t go today,” Alex says. Her eyes reflect the flame from the television. “Oh my God. Do you think anyone was inside?”

“I doubt it,” Strand says. His voice is rough, as if he’s just inhaled lungfuls of smoke. “Excuse me.”

He can’t watch the fire burn anymore. He can’t think of what might have happened had Alex and he gone to the church. He needs air, he needs--

Strand opens the front door, shutting it behind him. He leans on it, takes in huge breaths of fresh air. His heart is pounding in his chest, hammering against his ribcage. Fear washes over him, age-old fear that he thought he’d put behind him.

Somewhere, at the edge of his vision, a little boy, clothes wet and skin bluish grey, grins.

Strand closes his eyes and tries not to scream.


	88. "I'll see you later."

“So,” Alex says. “I’ll see you later?”

Strand blinks. He thinks back, but he can’t remember having scheduled another meeting.

Alex looks at him, eyebrows raised, expectant.

Frowning, he shakes his head. “Later?”

Alex smiles. “You forgot, didn’t you? We’re doing early Thanksgiving, remember? At the studio. You said you would ‘make an appearance.’”

He doesn’t quite remember having said such a thing, but Alex’s tone drops several octaves in what must be an imitation of his voice.

“I don’t sound like that,” Strand says, smiling.

“Sure you do,” Alex says. “Very deep and serious.”

She moves away from the door, back towards him. She reaches out, cups his jaw, rubs at the stubble there. “And sexy. Especially in the morning, when you first wake up.”

Turning his head, he catches her wrist with his lips. Even after all these weeks of being together, he doesn’t know how to properly react in the face of such compliments. Not with words. He can’t trust himself not to trip over them. 

He kisses her, soft and gentle, hoping to convey just how much she means to him with the slide of his lips against hers. She sighs against him, her fingers tangled in the cotton of his shirt.

Strand reluctantly pulls away, but he doesn’t go far. He rests his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breath mingling, and murmurs, “Don’t you have an interview to get to?”

Alex’s hand moves to smooth the fabric of his shirt where she’s wrinkled it. “Yeah. I better get going.”

Neither moves, not for a long moment. Eventually, Alex steps back and away. She shifts the strap of her messenger bag higher on her shoulder. “Don’t forget,” she says.

“I won’t.”

Alex smiles. 

He’s never been so thankful for something so simple as a smile, but he is. It reaches all the way up to her expressive brown eyes, making him feel something that he’d long thought impossible.

He’s happy, for the first time in over twenty years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and tooth-rottingly sweet, but I wanted to get something out for the holiday. To everyone who celebrates, have a wonderful Thanksgiving.


	89. "I noticed."

Strand watches out of the corner of his eye as Alex moves, zombie-like, across Strand’s living room. Her feet shuffle, barely clearing the hardwood floor, one after the other. 

“I’m so tired,” she says. She looks at him through bleary eyes, red after having been rubbed too many times.

Strand opens his mouth to say something, to tell her to go home and try to get some rest, but he shuts it in surprise when she collapses onto the sofa. Her feet are still on the floor and she’s bent at the waist over the arm of the sofa, her face pressed into the cushion.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Tired,” she repeats, mumbling into the sofa.

A corner of Strand’s lips lift in a wry smile. “I noticed.”

She shakes her head, but to deny what, Strand cannot say. Her words, when she speaks, sound very much like “Go on without me.”

Strand laughs.

He attempts to go back to his book, but it takes him a long moment to realize that he has no idea where he left off. It seems as if he’d been turning pages, while his attention had clearly remained elsewhere. After several minutes, he gives up on the pretense of reading and looks over at Alex.

She hasn’t moved from her spot. The position cannot be the least bit comfortable.

Strand sets the book down on the coffee table. After a moment’s hesitation, he takes her gently by the shoulders and pulls her the rest of the way onto the sofa.

Alex is too surprised to utter anything but a squeak. She looks up at him, her head settled on his lap, her expression a mixture of annoyance and amusement. She half-heartedly smacks at his chest, before curling up onto her side. “You could have warned me,” she says.

Strand lets his fingers settle in her hair, massaging her temples in slow circles. “I could have,” he concedes. The effect, however, is worth it. He enjoys having her close. And it is rare for Alex to let him tend to her, as fiercely independent as she is. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” she says. And then, “Don’t stop.”

Strand hadn’t planned to. He moves on to her scalp, carding his fingers through her hair. Alex sighs. She presses the barest of kisses to his stomach.

Strand smiles. He continues his work, and even though Alex doesn’t fall asleep, _can’t_ fall asleep, he savors the moment anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, sometimes it's so much fun to do established relationship fluff. BRB, gonna go brush my teeth now.


	90. "You can tell me anything."

The sky is overcast, threatening rain later in the morning. The wind bites at Alex’s face, the only part of her not protected from the cold. Her nose, she knows from experience, is probably a bright Rudolph red.

But none of that matters. 

Nothing matters, but the drag of air through her lungs and the pounding of the pavement underneath her sneakers.

And the man, running beside her.

He keeps his long legs in check, keeping pace with her when he could easily pull ahead. His breaths are measured, clouding just in front of his face on each exhale. His pale cheeks are stained a rosy, wind-burned pink.

Strand notices her watching him and, not breaking stride, gives her a quizzical look. Alex smiles and shakes her head to reassure him. She directs her gaze back to the path in front of her.

It had surprised her, early in their acquaintance, to learn that Strand liked to run. He’d asked, tentatively, on one of his visits to Seattle, if Alex could recommend a good trail. She doesn’t know why the question had caught her so off guard. Perhaps because, back then, she could only imagine him sitting behind his big, expensive desk in his office in Chicago, dressed in an equally expensive suit, not in track pants and a T-shirt, sweat dripping down his face. But she’d taken another look at him, examining him as a person, not just the new subject of her podcast, and had told him that she could show him, personally, all of her favorite places to run.

They never got a chance to run together, however. Not until Strand moved to Seattle. She’d almost forgotten her offer until Strand had asked again. His words had been much less hesitant and Alex had counted it as a victory for the state of their friendship that he had even asked at all.

For months now, no matter what has been going on between them, Alex will meet Strand for a run. They don’t have to talk, they don’t even need to look at one another. But they can run together, side by side, and somehow, by the end of it, everything doesn’t feel quite so overwhelming between them.

They come to a stop after an easy three miles. Alex had pushed the pace for the last mile--her eyes keeping close watch on the ominous rain clouds gathering--and they’re both a little out of breath by the time Alex’s watch beeps, signalling the end of their run. 

Alex grins, even as she tries to catch her breath.

Strand smiles back at her. 

And then, before either of them can say a word, Strand flinches as a large raindrop lands on his cheek. He frowns as he swipes it away with a gloved hand, glancing up at the dark sky above them.

“C’mon,” Alex says, “my car is closer.”

They run, but not fast enough. The rain comes down in big, icy drops. Alex yelps as they immediately soak into her jacket and leggings. 

Laughing, she takes Strand’s arm and urges him to run faster.

She has to wrestle her key out of her jacket pocket as she goes, but she manages to unlock it just before they reach her car. Alex throws open the driver side door and hops into the seat. Beside her, Strand settles into the passenger seat, his long legs crammed into the small space between him and the dashboard.

Shivering, Alex starts the car. She sets the heat to blow full blast. It blows cold air, at first, until the heat kicks on and the car begins to warm.

Sitting back in her seat, Alex looks over at Strand and grins. “Well, that was fun, don’t you think?”

Strand tugs one of his gloves off with his teeth, nipping at the tip of the middle finger and pulling until his hand is free. He uses it to run through sweat and rain soaked hair, pushing it back off of his forehead. “Perhaps next time we should pay more attention to the weather forecast.”

“And what? Miss the mad dash back to the car?”

“Preferably,” Strand says, but there is a glint of amusement in his cool blue eyes that betrays the seriousness of his expression.

“I thought you liked the rain?”

“I do.”

It must the the endorphin high. Alex can’t keep the smile off of her face. “But not being caught in it?”

“Not in,” Strand digs into one of his pockets and pulls out his phone. He swipes at it with his non-gloved hand, “45 degree weather. No.”

They fall into silence, the only noise being the heavy fall of rain against the roof of Alex’s car. She tries to peer out of her windshield, but without turning on her wipers, she can’t see far beyond the water cascading down the glass.

Alex turns back to Strand to find him already looking at her. He’s staring at her, as if he needs to memorize the contours of her face, as if he’ll need to sketch her features without a reference sometime in the future.

This isn’t the first time she’s caught him looking at her like this. But for the first time, she thinks to ask him about it. “What’s wrong?” 

Strand blinks and the spell, such as it was, is broken. He looks down at his hands where he toys with his phone in his lap. “Nothing.”

Alex sighs. She’s half-frustrated with him for not being able to open up to her, even after all this time, and herself for having given him every cause to be reticent. “I know that I haven’t really been the best at this whole friendship thing. But, you can tell me anything. I mean it.”

He glances up at her, then back to his lap. 

“Thoughts, feelings, questions, concerns.” Alex continues. “Like, I don’t know, why do you keep looking at me like I’m about to disappear at any moment?” 

He doesn’t say anything. Long enough that Alex thinks he’ll probably do as he always does when she asks him questions that make him uncomfortable--make his excuses and take off.

He looks at her again, this time with conflict clear in his eyes. Alex thinks, _This is it. He’ll go right out that door and into the rain_.

And then he’s kissing her. Soft, warm lips press against her own. His hand cups the side of her face. His thumb sweeps gently over the arch of her cheekbone. 

For a long moment, Alex is too surprised to respond. She feels him about to withdraw and panic prompts her into action. With a hand behind his head, she pulls him back towards her, returning his kiss with one of her own. She slides her lips over his, savoring the way they fit together. Not perfect, but altogether _right_. 

Alex sighs into the kiss. Her fingers find their way into Strand’s dark hair. She tugs a little, because she’s always wanted to know what his hair would feel like in between her fingers, and because she can’t help herself. She wants to tilt his head _just so_. She wants him to open for her, to let her in to taste and explore.

Strand breaks away with a small sound of distress. Alex’s eyes open to see him pull back, to see him open the door and duck out into the freezing rain. 

The door slams shut behind him.

Alex sits for a long moment, watching the blurry figure of Strand jog in the direction of his own car until the pouring rain prevents her from seeing much of anything at all.

She sits back in her seat, her head tipped up to stare at the blank grey of her car’s roof. “What the hell was that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why this chapter was so difficult to write. But, here it is, whether it wants to be or not. :P


	91. "I hope you like it."

He’s avoiding her. 

Ever since their kiss, Strand has been avoiding having _any_ contact with her. He refuses phone calls, ignores her texts and email. Ruby, once again caught in the middle of _whatever_ is going on between them, irritably tells her that Strand is _busy_ and will get in contact with her when he has an opening in his schedule. She refuses to tell Alex _when_ she can expect an opening and hangs up with a few muttered words. All Alex can catch is something that sounds like “--grown-ass man--” before the call ends with a violent _click_.

She even waits at their usual meeting spots along their favorite running routes, but he doesn’t show. Either she keeps missing him or he’s found somewhere else to run. Or he’s switched up his routine. Perhaps he’s running at different times. Or maybe he’s stopped running, altogether. 

The only other thing Alex can think of is to ambush him at his father’s house. Which is how she ends up sitting on the front steps of the old Victorian, huddled in her coat, her cheeks burning with the cold.

The house is dark and Strand’s car isn’t in the driveway. After an hour of waiting, Alex begins to wonder if he hasn’t been avoiding her after all. Has he actually been busy? Had he gone out of town, perhaps? Another teaching job? Research?

Is it something to do with Coralee? He’d told her that he didn’t expect to see her again, but he could have been wrong. 

Or he could have been lying.

A mixture of anger and jealousy boils underneath the surface of her skin. She tamps down on it, but it remains, simmering, ready to return to a full roil at any moment.

Why? Why is Alex _jealous_? Coralee is--was-- _is_ Strand’s _wife_. Alex and Strand have shared one kiss. One kiss, broken off almost as soon as it had started. Alex doesn’t have any claim to him, doesn’t have any _reason_ to be jealous.

She stands up, ready to leave, just as Strand’s car pulls into the driveway.

“Goddamnit,” she says. 

He’s staring at her through the windshield, expression carefully blank. After a long second, he unbuckles his seatbelt, leans over the passenger seat to gather his things, and slowly gets out of the vehicle.

She waits for him to make his way toward her before she speaks. “I almost expected you to turn around and leave.”

Voice neutral, Strand asks, “Why would I do that?”

“It’s been two weeks and I haven’t heard a word from you. I might not have two doctorates, but I’m pretty smart. I can figure out when you’re avoiding me.”

Strand moves passed her, going up the steps to the porch, heading for the front door. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

Alex takes the steps two at a time, putting herself in front of him, effectively blocking his path. “You _have_.”

“I _haven’t_ ,” he says. He tries to get around her, but Alex sidesteps to block him again. “I’m not going to argue with you like a, like a child. Let me through.”

This time, Alex lets him go. “You won’t argue like a child, but you’ll certainly run away like one. _Fine_. I hope you like it. I hope you like being alone.” She knows she should stop. She should shut her mouth, get in her car, and go home. “All alone in your father’s house, no one to talk to except your _employee_. With nothing but your stupid Black Tapes.”

Strand looks at her, his eyes wide behind his glasses. It doesn’t look like he’s even breathing.

“God!” Alex continues. “No wonder Coralee left you.”

Strand takes a step back, as if she’s just struck him across the face. He drops his briefcase. The latch breaks and papers explode out like giant pieces of confetti.

Alex turns on her heel and stalks to her car. When she keys on the ignition and throws the car in reverse, Strand is still standing, frozen, in the same spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back???


	92. "I want you to be happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The exciting conclusion to the previous two parts.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who wished me a welcome back. :)

Her anger doesn’t even last until she gets to her apartment. Like an engine running on fumes, she crashes face-first onto her couch. Her eyes are hot. She closes them, tries to choke back tears, but soon the fabric of the throw pillow she’s pressed her face into is wet with them.

She’s screwed up. Holy hell, has she screwed up. Worse than she’s ever screwed up before.

How could she say that to Strand? How could she say _any_ of that to Strand? She was angry at herself, not at him. Well, she _was_ frustrated with him for having avoided her. But the things she said? They came out of fury for her own self. For having feelings for Strand. For being jealous of Coralee. For getting her hopes up after a single kiss.

He was right to put space between them. She could put together a laundry list of reasons why they could never be together. And right at the top of the list?

It’s not that Alex is a journalist and Strand is her subject. It isn’t the age difference between them. It’s the fact that Alex continues to hurt him, over and over again.

This time? Though she hadn’t meant the words, she had used them on purpose. She had hurt him on purpose.

She calls in sick the next day. And the next. When Nic and her producers ask if she’s okay, Alex tells them that she’s tired, that she needs a rest. Knowing about her insomnia, they’re all too happy to give her the time off.

She wanders through her apartment like a ghost. Her tears are on a hair trigger. And as hard as she tries to stop, she only cries harder and harder, until she’s a blubbering mess on the floor. All because of a spilled glass of water. Or the battery on her laptop dying. Or the sight of her mud-caked running shoes lined up by the door.

“Fuck,” she says. She’s in the bath, her knees clutched to her chest, tears rolling down her face.

They were on their way to being friends. They’d gotten past all of the bullshit they’d done in the past. Then Strand had to kiss her and…

...and she’s ruined _everything_.

He doesn’t call her, doesn’t text her. She doesn’t expect him to. If anything, she expects a call from Nic at any moment, asking her why Strand has dropped out of the podcast.

But even that doesn’t come.

The bathwater is cold by the time she climbs out of it. She dries herself, wraps herself in a towel, and without even running a brush through her hair, crawls into bed. It’s early and there shouldn’t be any tears left, but Alex cries herself to sleep.

 

She wakes at 3:00. Her dreams are not haunted by tall shadow figures, girls with upside down face, nor are there any decapitated cats curled in bed with her. No, instead she sees herself and Dr. Strand, standing on his porch. She repeats the same words she’d thrown at him the other day, but every time she says them Strand shatters, like glass, into a thousand jagged pieces. And each time, she tries to pick up the pieces, to put him back together again, her hands slippery with blood, her fingers sliced open in her haste, only for the pieces to disintegrate into a fine sand. The wind catches what isn’t stuck to her hands, a messy, bloody sort of paste, and Strand disappears.

She’s barely able to wait until the sun begins to peek over the horizon. She’s in her car, wearing nothing but a PNWS hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, her sockless feet shoved into a pair of sneakers. She must look like a mad woman. Her hair is a mess of knots, there are still traces of makeup smudged underneath her eyes, making the dark circles permanently etched there even more prominent. And there is nothing that can hide the desperation in her eyes or the half-manic gleam of someone who hasn’t gotten sleep in months.

She slams her car door shut behind her and runs up the driveway. The temperature has dropped and she should be wearing gloves and a scarf, a heavier coat, thicker pants maybe, but she barely feels the cold. She doesn’t even register the wind whipping at her face, pulling tears from her eyes. She pounds on the front door with two fists, as if something terrible is chasing her. “Dr. Strand! Richard!”

The door swings open. Between the thuds of her fists against the sturdy wood of the front door, she hadn’t heard the lock click or the deadbolt turn. She nearly tumbles into Strand’s house, into the man himself, but he rights her with two hands on her shoulders.

He blinks blearily at her through crooked glasses, hastily thrown on after she’d woken him. He pushes his hair away from his face and mumbles, “You’re going to wake the neighborhood.”

He turns, leaving the door wide open, and heads back into the house. When Alex doesn’t move right way, he turns tired eyes on her. “Tea,” he says. As if that is invitation enough.

Alex follows him inside, into the kitchen. He waves her toward a seat at the table, not even looking at it, his attention focused solely on his goal. He pulls two mugs down, fills the kettle with water, and puts it on the burner to heat. He adds sugar to his own mug, a splash of milk to the other. He hangs a tea bag in each mug, pours hot water over both of them, and brings both mugs to the table.

He hasn’t shaved since she last saw him. That alone is cause enough for Alex to worry. “I--”

Strand pushes her mug closer to her. “Tea,” he insists.

Alex feels a laugh bubble up out of her, in spite of herself. “You...are not a morning person.”

Somehow, she had never noticed. He blinks slowly at her in answer. 

They drink their tea in silence. Alex becomes more and more self-conscious, with nothing but the tick of the clock in her ears and the taste of bitter tea leaves on her tongue. Why is she here? Couldn’t she have waited until morning proper?

Did she expect him to be gone, just like in her dream?

Strand sits back once his mug is empty. He still looks half asleep, but there is something in his expression that tells Alex he’s ready to listen to her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, all in a rush. “I’m so, _so_ sorry. I shouldn’t have said _any_ of those things. I was stupid, so _stupid_ , to say them. I was angry and I haven’t been sleeping and--and--” She loses steam, crumbling in on herself. In nearly a whisper, she says. “I want you to be happy. If not with me, then--”

Strand stands. He rounds the table until he’s in front of her. Alex flinches, expecting the worst, for him to reject her apology, to tell her to get out of his house and never to contact him again. Instead, Strand’s arms circle her shoulders, pulling her into him. He hugs her, bent at an awkward angle due to his height, and says, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“What?” Alex asks. She tries to pull away, but Strand doesn’t let her. “No! What I said was unforgivable. You should be angry. You should _hate_ me.”

“I don’t hate you, Alex. I could--” He swallows. “I could never.”

“Then why? Why were you avoiding me?”

“Because I was afraid.” He hugs her closer, dropping his forehead on top of her crown. “I thought you would realize it was a mistake. That you wanted nothing to do with me. That you would leave me, like everyone else in my life.”

Alex’s heart clenches. She remembers her words with even more regret. _No wonder Coralee left you._

“So you pushed me away?”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Alex winds her arms around him. “I couldn’t stop thinking. Of how much I hurt you.”

His fingers tangle in the hair at the back of her neck. “I thought I’d ruined everything. When I kissed you.”

“Do you regret it?”

“I--no. Only that I ran away.”

Alex tips her head up to look at him. Their faces are so close that she can feel his breath tickle her cheek. “I don’t regret it, either. Only what I said after you ran away.”

He smiles, a tiny upturn of his lips. Alex smiles back. “That’s your cue to kiss me,” she says.

He kisses her. After that, he picks her up, a hand under her ass and her legs wrapped around his waist, and kisses her as he brings her up the stairs to his bedroom. And after that, he kisses her for several hours more, until the sun shines across the rumpled sheets of his bed.


	93. "I believe in you."

Strand’s shoulders are tense. He sits on the sofa, shifting to the edge of the cushion and back, as if he hasn’t quite made up his mind whether he wants to project an air of I Don’t Want To Be Here or I’m Here, But Only Because I’m Allowing It. He sits back again, arms and legs crossed. “Alex,” he says. 

She puts her hand on his knee. “Richard.”

He scowls.

Alex bumps her shoulder into his. “Relax.”

He glares at the entertainment system across from their couch. There are awards and accolades behind glass doors, in spaces where complex surround sound systems and clunky DVD players might have gone years before. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Alex says. She squeezes his knee. “I believe in you.”

His glare softens as he looks at her. A small smile pulls at his lips.

The moment is ruined when Tannis Braun emerges from the kitchen, two mugs in his hands. He smiles, the gracious host. “Tea for Richard and coffee for Alex.”

He sets the mugs down on the coffee table in front of his guests. He sits down in the armchair across from them. He crosses his legs and tents his fingers. He doesn’t look at them through half-lidded eyes, but Alex recognizes the Sherlockian figure he’s attempting to portray. “Now, how can I help you?”

Strand bristles beside her. He uncrosses his legs and once again sits forward. 

Before he can make a rude comment about Tannis being psychic, Alex smiles. “We just have a few questions for you. As the show’s resident psychic, of course.”

“Of course,” Tannis says. He glances at Strand. His smile takes on something of a knowing quality, but it’s not quite as expert as Strand’s signature wry smile.

Strand doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s glaring at the tea, or watching the steam rise from the mug in an attempt to distract himself. It’s difficult to tell. In any case, he makes no move to drink from it.

“When we talked about your gift--God, it must be something like a year or so ago--you said that your gift had been unlocked from birth. That you could remember knowing you were psychic when you were three.”

It isn’t a question, but Tannis nods. “I did.”

“How did you know? You didn’t go into much detail.”

“Like a lot of us,” Tannis says, eyes locked on Strand, “I would see people who weren’t there. My parents attributed it to a healthy imagination and a multitude of imaginary friends.”

“You’re saying you saw dead people?” Alex asks.

“Spirits, yes.”

“Do you still see them?”

“On occasion.”

Her coffee sufficiently cooled, Alex takes a sip. It’s made exactly how she takes it, one calorie-free sweetener, a dash of almond milk. She tries to hide her surprise behind Strand-like skepticism. It’s not like her coffee preference is a closely guarded secret. He could have learned it from anywhere. Or it could have been a lucky guess. “Do they talk to you?”

“Not really. It’s more like I just _know_ what they’re trying to say.”

“But you can have conversations with them?” Alex continues.

“Oh, yes. There is so much we can learn from our dearly departed.”

“But you don’t see their mouths move?” Strand asks. Alex hadn’t expected him to speak up during the interview. Or at least not without his words dripping with condescension. “How do you know that the _spirits_ are speaking? How do you know it isn’t something else?”

Tannis seems surprised by the question. He drops his steepled fingers into his lap. “You mean like a demon?”

“For the sake of argument,” Strand says. “If you believe the mythology, demons excel at mimicry. How can you be sure you’re not being tricked by something more sinister than a lost loved one?”

“Demons are dark creatures, Richard,” Tannis says, suddenly grave. “You’ve felt that darkness. You’ve encountered it before. You would recognize it again.”

Strand’s eyes narrow at the other man. “I’ve felt no such thing. I’ve _done_ no such thing.”

Tannis smiles, but it’d devoid of any of its previous charm. “Right. You’re still pretending you don’t have the gift.”

Strand stands, hands clenched into fists by his sides. “I’m not _pretending_ anything.”

Alex reaches up to take one of his wrists. She tugs a little, a silent plea to sit down.

He sits.

She gives him a grateful look, then turns back to Tannis. “You’ve done work with the police, helping them find missing persons. You were there with me when Sebastian was missing. Do you remember what you said when I asked you about dreams?”

If Tannis is surprised by the change of direction, he doesn’t show it. “You asked if it was true, what they show on television. Of psychics having visions of the location of a missing person. I told you it happens, but usually only when the victim is in close proximity to the psychic.”

“How close is close?” Alex asks. “Is there a standard radius for something like that? Same town? Same State? Same neighborhood?”

“It really depends on the psychic,” Tannis says. “Some are...stronger. More receptive.”

“Have you ever had a dream like that? A vision? Can you describe what it was like?”

Tannis once again looks straight at Strand. “Once. I was in a hotel for a conference. I’d seen the news report about missing twins, two girls under ten, before settling down for the night. I dreamt about them. They were wrapped around each other, singing to one another with lips blue with cold. The police found them the next day, dead, under a foot of snow.”

“Oh my God,” Alex says.

“You said yourself that you watched the report before going to bed,” Strand says. “Your subconscious--”

“Dreams like that, visions, they’re different from other dreams. The feeling… it’s difficult to describe. Syrupy, maybe. Sticky and heavy. Sickly sweet.”

Strand frowns. He looks away. “If you knew it was different, why didn’t you call the police?”

“You know how uncomfortable handcuffs can be, Richard. Police are willing to work with psychics, true, but that doesn’t make us any less suspicious when we find a body no one else has found.” Tannis uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his chair. “You shouldn’t fight it, you know.” 

“I’m not fighting anything.”

Tannis sighs. “Suit yourself. But you’ll never unlock your true potential if you keep trying to keep it hidden.”

“There’s nothing to unlock.” Strand stands again, but this time with an air of finality. The interview, as far as he’s concerned, is over.

“Thanks for your time,” Alex says. “We really appreciate it.”

Tannis stands as well. He waits as Alex collects her bag, then walks Alex and Strand to the door. He holds out a hand for Strand to shake.

Strand ignores him. 

Tannis claps him on the back, instead. The contact startles Strand into meeting his eyes. “You have excellent defenses, but one day, something is going to get through. And on that day, you’re going to put yourself and everyone you know in danger.”

“Is this your psychic opinion?” Strand asks. He shrugs off Tannis’s touch.

“Yes, actually. Come see me, when you’re ready to accept yourself for who you really are.”

Strand doesn’t answer. He brushes past Tannis and doesn’t stop until he gets to their rental car, parked in the driveway.

Alex smiles. “Thanks again.”

Tannis nods. He looks out at Strand, leaning impatiently against the passenger door. “Take care, Alex.”

After the car is started and they get a little ways down the road, Alex ventures to ask, “So, was any of that helpful?”

Strand, who hasn’t yet uttered a word since leaving Tannis Braun’s house, turns to stare out the window. “Cryptic nonsense.”

The way he says it, however, makes Alex think Tannis’s words might have affected Strand more than he’d like to let on.


	94. "You can do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references events from the last chapter. If you aren't caught up, it might make more sense if you go back and give it a read.

Rain pelts the windows of Strand’s fathers house. Thunder rumbles, rattling the glass. 

Alex watches the rain fall from her place at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a warm mug of hot chocolate. “It’s not letting up, is it?”

“It’s more than likely it will rain all day,” Strand says. He sits with his chin in his hand, reading from a worn paperback.

“Oh, yeah?” Alex asks. “Is that your _expert_ opinion?”

Strand frowns. “It’s the opinion of the meteorologist who gave the weather forecast this morning. I assume he is an expert.”

“So you don’t just _feel_ stuff like that?”

He sighs, but doesn’t look up from his book. “No, Alex. I don’t just _feel_ stuff like that.”

“Okay, well, how about this?” Alex reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and pulls out a penny. She sets it on the table. 

Strand’s eyes flicker to the penny, then back to his book. “What do you want me to do with that?”

“I don’t know--move it? With your mind?”

“I’m not telekinetic, Alex. I’m not psychic. I’m not _anything_. Will you give it a rest?”

“You _asked_ me to help you figure this out,” Alex says, crossing her arms over her chest.

The book closes with an audible snap. Strand stands from the table, turning his back on her. “It was a moment of weakness. I don’t know what I was thinking. Or maybe I wasn’t. Just--leave it alone.”

Alex follows him up. She winds her arms around his waist from behind, resting her forehead against the center of his back. “Leave _it_ alone or leave _you_ alone?”

Strand turns in the circle of her arms. He hugs her to him, holding her tight. “I’m--not trying to push you away. Please stay.”

Alex buries her face in his shirt and breathes in the warm scent of him. “Okay.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”

“The whole psychic thing?” Alex asks.

“The whole _relationship_ thing.”

Stretching up on her tiptoes, Alex presses a kiss to his lips. “So we’ll work on it?”

Strand smiles. “For as long as you’re willing to put up with me.”

“Good.” Alex places her hands over each of his eyes. “What year is on the penny?”

He huffs. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. C’mon. You can do it. I know you can.”

She expects him to blow her off, to just say the first number that comes to his head. But his eyelashes tickle her fingers as they close. He’s silent, barely even breathing, until he says, “1998.”

“Is that your final answer?”

Strand pulls her hands away from his face, squeezing them once before he lets go. He looks sheepish, like he can’t believe he’s participating in something so foolish. “Yes. Was I right?”

Alex leans over the penny. It’s dirty, almost unrecognizable as currency, but Alex can still make out the raised numbers. Disappointment runs through her. “Not even close. 1985.”

Shrugging, he says, “Perhaps I’m not psychic, after all.”

Alex sighs. “I guess.”

“You’re disappointed?”

Alex sighs again, more exaggerated. “I _guess_. I really wanted--” She brightens as a thought comes to her. “Wait!”

Strand blinks. “For what?”

“Maybe it’s like Tannis Braun said. Maybe you need to practice to unlock your true potential.”

“Alex--”

“No, listen.” Alex bounces on the balls of her feet, unable to fight her excitement. “You were able to see the Tall Men. And you had a vision about where to find Bobby Maimes. Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way.”

“I don’t--”

Again, Alex interrupts him. She snatches the penny from the table and runs from the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Strand calls.

“I can’t tell you! Give me five minutes. No peeking!”

For the next few hours, Alex hides the penny throughout Strand’s father’s house. 

He finds it.

Every. Single. Time.


	95. "Good luck."

“I don’t like it,” Alex says.

“Don’t like what?” Strand asks. The wind tries to make off with the pile of napkins between them. He moves a container of rice on top of the stack. “It was your idea to have lunch outside today.”

The weather _has_ been gorgeous. Perfect, as Alex had said, for a picnic lunch.

“Not that,” Alex says. She pushes a lock of hair out of her eyes. 

He waits for her to put her hair up into a messy bun, away from the pull of the wind. He picks at his stir fry with his chopsticks.“Then, what?” 

“You lost your family,” she says.

Strand tries hard not to flinch.

Alex notices his discomfort, anyway. He forgets, sometimes, how observant she can be. “Sorry.”

Strand shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“That’s just it,” Alex says, pointing her fork at him. “It isn’t fine.”

Strand doesn’t know what to say. The loss of his family, the loss of everyone he ever loved, it’s a wound that will never quite heal over. But after twenty years, he’s learned to live with it. Every so often, he even convinces himself he doesn’t feel the pain of it anymore. That it’s finally nothing more than a ragged scar over his heart.

“They all--they thought you did it. They thought you killed her.”

Ducking his head, Strand shoves stir fry into his mouth, giving him an excuse not to meet her eyes. Again, he doesn’t have a response.

Coralee’s parents...he can almost understand why they would blame him for her disappearance. They were understandably devastated. They wanted answers. And they never really knew him. They’d supported Coralee’s decision to marry him, but they’d mistrusted him, almost from the beginning. He supposes that, at least, is as much his fault as it is theirs. 

Cheryl, however. Cheryl should have known. No matter what she’d told Alex, that the police had gotten her all turned around during the investigation, she should have known her own brother wasn’t capable of murder. She should have stood by him.

And Charlie? She loved Coralee as a mother. She blamed him when he couldn’t find her, out in those wood. And afterwards, she disowned him for it. In the end, when she went to live with her grandparents, she’d gotten just as caught up as the rest of them.

She’s never said so. But then, after years of estrangement, she’s never had to.

“But she didn’t die,” Alex continues. “Legally, we can’t really prove anything, but she’s not dead. We have her voice on the podcast.”

Strand swallows, but it’s difficult around the lump formed in his throat. He takes a sip of water, but the lump stays right where it is. “So?”

“So? They were wrong. You didn’t do anything. They haven’t even called you? To apologize?”

He shakes his head.

“See?” Alex forks a bit of rice from the container into her curry. “I don’t like it. It’s not fair.”

“Life,” Strand says.

“Isn’t fair, I know. But still.”

“It’s enough that she’s alive,” Strand says. He pushes his stir fry away, no longer hungry.

Alex watches, frowning. She always seems to be conscious of how much--or how little, rather--he eats. “Maybe I can do something about it. Call them, explain the situation. Something.”

Strand smiles, aware that it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good luck.”

Alex spears a piece of chicken, determination in her eyes.

Strand sighs. 

 

A week later, receives a call from a number he’s long thought forgotten. He sits at his desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and watches the phone vibrate.

Taking a slow sip of the amber liquid, he debates whether to answer it. He savors the taste of fire and ash on his tongue. The burn of the alcohol is a welcome distraction from his indecision. The warmth that spreads through his gut soothing.

In the end, he lets it go to voicemail.

He deletes the message without playing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven't heard me gushing about this on tumblr:
> 
> I'm a guest writer for a podcast called The Lift. My episode aired yesterday. It's my first piece of for-realsies published work, so I hope you'll check it out. Find it here: [The Lift S2E7: "Take a Bow"](http://victoriaslift.com/s2e7/)


	96. "I brought you an umbrella."

The air is heavy with the salty scent of the sea. The sun is warm on the back of his neck as he makes his way through the crowd to their table.

“Strand,” Alex says. “Can you believe this view?”

The sun is beginning to set over the water. Instead of blue, the horizon is painted in yellows, oranges, and reds. Only a few thin clouds are scattered above them and they glow a bright, neon pink, shaded with dusty lavenders and deep purples. 

Strand smiles as he sits down across from her, turned a little so he can enjoy the sunset and still speak with Alex. “It’s beautiful.”

She turns and takes a sip from the glass in front of her, something just as tropical as their surroundings. “When you suggested a vacation, I never pictured anything like this.”

“There’s only one thing missing,” Strand says.

“What?” Alex asks, looking honestly baffled. The bridge of her nose is sunburned, despite Strand having watched her put on sunscreen only a few hours before.

Strand plinks his gift into her glass, bright blue against pale yellow slush. “I brought you an umbrella.”

Alex laughs. “Now, it’s perfect.”

“Yes,” Strand says, though he’s no longer speaking solely about their tropical getaway. “Absolutely perfect.”


	97. "I'll pick you up at the airport."

He’s missed her voice. He just wishes he could hear it under better circumstances.

“The ceremony was really beautiful. Sad, of course. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard in my life.”

He’s missed her voice, but he has no idea what to say. Comforting others has never been a strong suit of his. He’s never had much practice in it. And those who have lost loved ones are not interested in logic nor the psychology behind their loss.

Five days stumbling around in the woods, willing himself psychic. Strand hadn’t been interested in logic either.

“You have my deepest sympathies,” Strand says. It sounds Hallmarkian. Like he’s reading straight from a card. He winces.

“Thanks, Strand.” 

He can hear the sad smile in her voice.

He doesn’t know what to say. Silence stretches on before he clears his throat. “When do you return to Seattle?”

“Well, my family is supposed to get together to have dinner. I want to be there, to support my aunt, but I don’t know if I can. I kind of just want to book myself on the next flight out of here.”

Strand swallows. His entire support structure had fallen apart the moment of Coralee’s disappearance. It had disintegrated completely when she was presumed dead. “Everyone deals with loss in their own way. But you should stay. Be with your family.”

Alex sighs. “You’re right. It’s just hard, you know?”

“I know.”

“I’ll see you when I get back?” Alex asks. Strand wonders if he’s imagining the hopefulness he hears in her voice. “My plane gets in on Tuesday.”

“I’ll pick you up at the airport,” Strand says, but he immediately backtracks. “Provided, of course, you don’t already have someone...”

“I’d like that. I’ll text you the details.”

“I--look forward to your return.” He winces again. 

A beat.

“I missed you, too,” Alex says, soft and sincere.

Strand colors. He rubs at the back of his neck, grateful that she can’t see his embarrassment. How can she so easily interpret the meaning behind his words? How can she so casually return the sentiment?

Alex breathes out. Not quite a sigh, but close. “I should probably get ready to go to dinner.”

Strand scrambles to say something, anything close to comforting. “You can call me. If you need to talk.”

“Thanks, I might just take you up on that.”

They say their goodbyes, reluctantly parting even with the hundreds of miles between them.

He still misses her voice, but her words play on loop until he finally settles down to sleep.

_I missed you, too_.


	98. "Take a deep breath."

Strand knocks on Alex’s door before he can convince himself not to. 

The walls are paper thin. He can hear the sound of the television murmuring from inside her apartment. He follows the sound of zombie-like shuffling, of slippers barely clearing the floor, before the deadbolt turns and the chain clinks as it’s unlatched. The door opens to reveal Alex, who blinks at him in surprise. “Strand?”

Her voice is gravel rough. By her wince, Strand thinks speaking must be as painful as it sounds. Her face is pale, except for the bright pink flush spread across her cheekbones. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than usual. Her hair is a tangled mess, damp with sweat. Despite the apparent heat, she’s wrapped herself in a blanket, which she keeps secured with one hand at her collar.

“I brought you soup,” he says, by way of explanation. He holds up a Tupperware container, as if she needs a demonstration. “Chicken noodle.”

Alex sighs. “Nic called you.”

Strand nods. “He did.”

She looks as if she has something to say, possibly something not very nice, but instead Alex backs away from the door. “If you’re not worried about getting sick, you might as well come in.”

Strand follows her in. He re-engages the deadbolt and slides the chain into place. Alex, blanket cape trailing behind her, makes her way into the living room and collapses onto a nest of blankets on the couch. A box of tissues sits on the coffee table. Next to it sits a water bottle and several blister packs of brightly colored pills.

“Where do you want this?” Strand asks, indicating the soup.

“Mmm, fridge? Haven’t really been hungry.”

Alex’s kitchen is small. It’s clean but for the dishes in the sink. Strand places the Tupperware in Alex’s refrigerator. It’s impossible not to notice how empty the shelves are. Condiments, a carton of eggs, and a near empty half-gallon jug of milk, but nothing really substantial. 

“You should still eat,” he says.

Alex snorts. “That’s rich, Rich. Coming from you.”

Strand frowns. “Rich?”

Dissolving into a ragged fit of coughing, it takes a moment before Alex replies. “Thought it was funny. Sorry. On a lot of medicine. Bound to make stupid jokes.”

She sounds strange. Disjointed. Like it’s an effort to form sentences. Like she has to stop to breathe around each thought.

“Are you okay?” he asks, making his way into the living room.

The looks she gives him says very clearly how dense she thinks the question is. “‘M sick. My head hurts. I can’t breathe. Top of all that, I can’t even sleep. What do you think?”

Her apartment is lit only by the light struggling in through the blinds of her patio door. Even so, Strand can tell that something is wrong. “Your lips are blue.”

Alex blinks at him. “What?”

He kneels down in front of her. Her lips, chapped from being sick, are tinted the faintest hint of blue. “Sit up,” he says.

“Wait, why?”

“I need to listen to your lungs. Sit up.”

“You’re scaring me,” she says, but she does straighten. 

Strand presses his ear to her chest. “Take a deep breath.”

She does. It’s faint, but as she drags breath into her lungs, Strand can hear the unmistakable sound of crackling. “Turn a bit.”

Alex twists on the cushions. Strand listens again, this time with his ear pressed to the damp cotton of her pajama top covering her back. More crackling.

“So?” Alex asks, once he pulls away.

“You need to see a doctor. As soon as possible.”

Her eyes are wide. Frightened. “But--it’s just the flu.”

“There’s a good chance you have pneumonia.”

She coughs again. When she’s done, she gasps like she’s just sprinted up a set of stairs. She looks at him through watery, teary eyes.

“Where are your shoes?” Strand asks, casting his eyes around the room. “I’m taking you to a clinic.”

Alex almost looks as if she’s going to argue with him, but in the end she points down a darkened hallway. “My closet. Door at the end of the hall.”

Strand strides down the hall and pushes the door open the rest of the way. All of the windows are covered in blackout curtains, giving her bedroom a cave-like quality, cool and dark. He gropes for a light switch and blinks as the room brightens.

He doesn’t let himself examine the space--it would be an invasion of privacy. He goes straight for the closet. Her shoes are lined up neatly across the bottom. Strand eyes them for a moment. He doesn’t want anything with a heel or straps that need to be buckled. It’s still chilly out, so no open toes or sandals. A simple pair of black flats catch his eye, tucked into the corner. He pulls them from the row and goes back to Alex.

“Here, slip these on.”

Her coat is draped across the back of one of the chairs in the dining area. While Alex slides into her shoes, Strand retrieves it. He helps Alex shrug into it.

Her brow is covered in sweat, but she huddles into the coat all the same. “Wait, my purse.”

“Where?” Strand asks.

“I, uh--” Alex looks around. She turns and begins to dig through her blanket nest. She unearths the strap first, then pulls it to free the rest.

The walk to his car is slow going. Alex shuffles along at his side. She refuses to let him carry her, but instead hangs heavily on his arm.

She rests with her head against the window during the drive. The late morning sun highlights the paleness of her skin and the fine sheen of sweat that covers her.

At the clinic, Alex leans against him as she fills out the paperwork. She makes pathetic noises every time she flips the page, only to find another page that requires she answer more questions or scrawl another signature.

He waits for her when her name is finally called. He doesn’t have a book, so he emails back and forth with Ruby, discussing a case she’s working on in his absence. It’s an easy case. Another so-called haunting. Not Black Tapes material. Somehow, diving into something simple, something almost reflexive, at the point, makes it easier for him to forget how worried he is for Alex.

If he hadn’t gone to see Alex, how much worse would it have gotten before Alex would call someone for help?

Would she have called for help?

He cuts off that line of thought and coaches Ruby on questions to ask when she conducts her follow-up interview with the client.

When Alex emerges from the exam, she holds up a small square of paper. “Antibiotics. You were right.”

Strand nods and takes her to the nearest pharmacy to fill her prescription. 

“How’d you know?” she asks, once they are back in her apartment. She’s on the couch, wrapped in one of the blankets from her nest, the edge of it pulled over her head like a hood.

“Charlie,” he says. “She used to be sick a lot, as a kid. We had to rush her to the hospital one night. Her lips were blue like yours. The doctors gave me a prescription for antibiotics and told me to keep listening to her lungs.”

Alex hums and closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the cushions.

He should go. Now that she’s seen a doctor. She needs to rest. She doesn’t need him to hang around, mother henning her. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I’ll let you sleep.”

Her eyes open, over-bright with fever. “Okay. Thanks for taking care of me today.”

“You’ll call,” he asks, “if you feel any worse?”

“Sure,” she says. But he can’t tell if she really means it.

“I’ll come back tomorrow. To bring you more soup. Or something else, if you would prefer.”

Alex smiles. “Okay.”

“Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”

“I won’t,” she says, and there is a definite hint of humor in her tone.

Strand leaves before he can embarrass himself further.

The next day, he brings her enough soup to last her through the week.


	99. "Be careful."

Panic fills Strand as soon as she says the words. 

“I need to find Simon.”

“No,” he says.

Nic looks relieved, as if he didn’t want to be the one to say it.

“He’s the only one who knows what the hell is going on. We have to stop this. We have to stop it before it gets any worse.”

Each one of them looks toward the sky, even though they are safely tucked into Strand’s basement, away from any windows.

“It’s dangerous,” Nic says.

“And since when do you shy away from danger, Nicodemus Silver?”

Nic winces.

Strand steps in before they can get into another argument. “What makes you think you could find Simon? He hasn’t called since he left you that voicemail. Even if he called again, we couldn’t trace him. We don’t have that kind of technology.”

“He’s probably using a burner phone, anyway,” Nic says.

Alex paces a few strides away. She turns, her hands on her hips. “That doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

“There could be another way.” Strand knows the argument is weak, even as he says it. They’ve been searching for answers for over a week now. 

The sky over Seattle has been dark for over a week. News reports show that it’s spreading, like the slow crawl of cancer. More and more cities are affected by the darkness.

The screams of the shades swirling overhead have gotten louder and louder, as the days have drawn on. Or what pass as days. The sun rises, they can see the outline of it against the rest of the sky, but no light struggles through. 

“If there is, it’s not in your father’s basement,” Alex says. “Face it. We need help. And the only person who has ever been willing to give us answers is Simon.”

“Warren--” Strand tries.

“Has fled. You heard the news.”

“Bastard,” Nic says.

Both Alex and Strand look at him. 

Nic blushes. “What?”

“Coralee,” Strand says. “She might know--”

Alex shakes her head. “She’s doing her best to keep you safe from the cult of Tiamat. As far as I’m concerned, she’s doing her part.”

“Besides,” Nic says, “wouldn’t she have called Strand if she knew something? Wouldn’t that count as protection? It’s not like he’s exempt from the apocalypse. Just because of his special genetics, or whatever.”

Strand clamps down on a reflexive denial about his so-called special genetics. Since the darkness first spread over Seattle, he can no longer assume anything. Instead, he shoots Nic a dirty look. “Whose side are you on?”

Nic puts up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. It’s just, if Coralee had any info, I’m pretty sure she would have shared it by now.”

“Right,” Alex says. “Which leaves Simon.”

Strand rises from the table. He goes to her, pulling her a little, until they’re out of Nic’s earshot. Nic busies himself with a book they’ve already flipped through a dozen times, giving them a semblance of privacy. 

“I don’t like this,” Strand says. “You have no idea where to even begin looking for Simon.”

Alex meets his worried eyes with a determined gaze. “I’m sort of hoping he’ll be the one to find me.”

Strand’s frown deepens. “Alex.”

“I’ll come back. I promise.”

Strand sighs. He cups her face, his thumb sweeping over the purple smudge of the dark circle under her eye. Alex closes her eyes and leans into his touch. Her hand comes up to cover his, small, so much smaller than his.

He kisses her. He kisses her with everything he can’t put into words. Alex fists her hand in his shirt and rises up on her tiptoes.

“I can’t lose you,” he says.

“And I don’t want to lose you either. But we’re both going to be lost if we don’t do something. Before it’s too late.”

Strand gathers her into his arms. He hugs her close, burying his nose in her hair. He breathes in the soft scent of her. “I should go with you.”

“I need you here. Keep going through the books with Nic. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we did miss something.”

Tipping her head up, she kisses him, long and lingering. 

“Be careful,” he says. “Please.”

“I will. Hold down the fort for me, will you?” She smiles.

Strand tries to match it with one of his own, but it’s too weighed down with anxiety. “Okay.”

When they return to the table, Nic looks up. “I take it you came to a decision?”

“I’m going to try to find Simon,” Alex says. “I’ll start by going to the studio. If I find anyone there, I’ll tell them to come here. While I’m out, do we need any more supplies?”

“If the supermarkets haven’t already been raided,” Nic says.

Strand shakes his head. “Just focus on Simon. We should have supplies for a month, at least.”

“And after that?”

“There won’t be anything we can do. If this darkness covers the Earth…” Strand trails off. It really will be an apocalypse. No light, no warmth from the sun, the world invaded by shades and who knows what other creatures? It would mean extinction. 

“So, we don’t let it come to that,” Alex says, with faux brightness in her voice.

“Right,” Strand says. He walks her to the stairs leading up to the house. “At the first sign of trouble, come straight back.”

“Okay.”

“It’s cold. Take my coat, if you need to. It’s hanging--”

Alex interrupts him, pressing her lips to his. “I’ll be back.”

He wants to stop her, wants to pull her back down the stairs, back into the relative safety of his father’s basement. But he lets her go. He follows the sound of her footsteps across the house. He can even hear the faint sound of the front door opening, swinging shut only seconds later.

He returns to the table, to research, when all he really wants to do is follow Alex, keep her safe. Nic gives him a small smile of commiseration. 

Neither speak, it feels like they hardly even breathe, until hours later, when the front door opens, letting in long screams of the shades swirling in the stratosphere above them. The screams are cut off when the door closes again.

“Finally,” Nic sighs, giving voice to the same sentiment running through Strand.

Both Nic and Strand run up the stairs to meet Alex. She smiles at them, triumphant, as she sheds her coat and kicks off her shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One left. :)


	100. "I love you."

It’s over. 

The apocolypse, such as it was, has been thwarted.

Alex makes sure to see each of the interns home. Battered and bruised, but alive, thank God. Afterward, she returns to the studio. 

Nic is still there. The only other person left in the half-smoldering building. Alex takes one look at him, his hair singed and his skin painted with soot, and tells him to go home.

Everything can wait. At least until they’ve each had a shower and a good night’s rest. 

For once, Alex might even be able to sleep.

Nic limps to his car. He gives her a wan smile over the top of the roof before he gets in. He drives off, leaving Alex at the studio alone.

She should follow her own advice. She should head home, make dinner, live her life, finally free of demons. But there is one other person she wants to see. Needs to see, really.

She doesn’t call ahead. She doesn’t even knock on the front door. She lets herself in.

Most of the lights are off, but Alex has been to Strand’s father’s house so many times that she knows how to navigate the dim space just from memory.

Strand looks up when she enters the family room turned study. He’s sitting on the sofa in near darkness. It’s quiet, but not oppressively so.

“Alex,” he says, voice hushed. As if the silence is a spell that he’s afraid to have broken. As if this is only a small reprieve from the chaos, as if their lives will be turned upside down once more, as soon as they’ve called attention to themselves.

“It’s over,” Alex says, just as quiet.

Strand nods. His eyes are a little unfocused behind his glasses. Shell-shocked, almost.

“Are you okay?”

Not one of them escaped unscathed, physically. Emotionally, none of them could be prepared for the horrors they had seen. But Strand? His entire world-view has been altered. Shattered, in the face of fiery demons and a pissed off creation goddess.

“I’m--processing. I think. How is everyone?”

“Fine. I guess. As much as they can be.” Alex shrugs. “I drove the interns home. Nic’s okay.”

“His ankle?”

“You were right. Not broken. Just twisted.”

“Good,” Strand says. He sighs. “Good.”

It looks like he’s retreating into himself. Alex goes to him. She crawls into his lap, winds her arms around him. As much in effort to ground him as to convince herself he’s there, he’s real.

That he’s himself.

Strand wraps his arms around her. He pulls her in close.

His stubble scratches the side of her face where she presses against him. She twists her fingers in the soft cotton of his shirt, his heartbeat strong against her wrist. His breath tickles her her skin. She breathes in the warm, sea-salt scent of him.

Alex laughs. “You smell like Tiamat.”

“An unexpected side-effect,” he says. And then, “I’m sorry I threw you against that wall. I wasn’t able to control my actions.”

“You weren’t you at the time.”

“No. I wasn’t.”

She can still hear the guilt in his words. Alex holds him that much more tightly. “It’s over.”

She imagines that they’ll all have to keep repeating those words until the begin to believe it. 

It’s over. 

The apocalypse had come. And they fought it off with tooth and nail and...well, Horn.

Strand hums, not quite in agreement. Silence descends. And as the minutes tick onward and the sun sets over the horizon, so too does darkness.

“I love you,” Strand says.

At the same time, Alex says, “I love you.”

Strand laughs. Not a quiet breath of laughter, but a full-on chuckle. Alex laughs too, dissolving into giggles in his arms.

Their lives are crazy, and after thwarting the apocalypse, they aren’t bound to get any easier. 

But all of that can wait. At least until they’ve each had a shower and a good night’s rest. 

And for once, wrapped in Strand’s warm, strong embrace, Alex might even be able to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. The end.
> 
> It only took a little over a year to finish. :P
> 
> One hundred chapters. Cripes. Without any space between the chapters, my word document is a whopping 259 pages. Officially, this is the longest anything I've ever written.
> 
> A huge thank you to all of the readers who spent the time to comment on Every Single Chapter. You all rock. And a big thank you to anyone who has left kudos, commented, or bookmarked this fic.
> 
> Just one last thing--if you took the time to read all 100 chapters, please consider writing at least a word of feedback, even if it's just an extra "kudos" or a "good job." It would really mean a lot to me.


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